THE PAWNBROKER'S LODGER.
No. I.

      PARTLY from economy, partly from the peculiar bent of my mind, I have for several years past been the tenant of two rooms above a pawnbroker's shop. Make a dead pause here, dainty reader, and go no further, if the announcement displease you. I have purposely set it forth thus early, that the pool of (some will say foul) water which lies before the threshold of my lucubrations being once crossed, the adventurous may, peradventure, find something curious and entertaining within, to reconcile him to the long step his fastidiousness hath taken.

      For my own part, I ought to be thankful for the disrepute in which mine host's profession is held: for I owe to it the comforts I enjoy — the clean, tidy drawing-room, tricked out with one or two rarities, which you might go far and not find in many a grander mansion; and the snug closet beyond it (quite large enough for a bachelor to sleep in) at the moderate rent of — shillings per week. The family are not patronised in the neighbourhood. The straw-bonnet-maker nearly opposite, who thanks her stars that she had never to put a card in the window since the day she began to let lodgings, minces and talks of " a profession which a lady may follow." The prim schoolmistress (I beg her pardon, seminary is the word now-a-days) at No. 18, will not allow her flock to pass on our side of the street. The same feeling has extended to the apartments which I now occupy. Many a gentlewoman of a certain age has sighed that her fears of the Mrs. Grundys of her circle have compelled her to relinquish so cheerful a situation. Many a travelling artist has looked wistfully at the rooms — doubted — decided that his connexion would not find them genteel enough, and hung up his frame full of satirical comments on, not copies of, the human face divine — at the confectioner's door round the corner. Long ago, indeed, a young Catholic Priest, whose miserable stipend prevented his being nice in his choice, took up his abode in the suspected quarters. It would have been impossible for him to have kept them: so many of his parishioners would not be persuaded that he, too, had not money to lend — making strange and wilful confusions between the confessional above and the shop below. But he died of consumption in the seventh month of his sojourn — whence good-natured neighbours took occasion to put it about that the rooms were unhealthy: — I know better. All these things made Mr. Smith and his sister willing to let them at a low rate. They stood empty long; public opinion is a masterful thing in a county town — till I, feeling that fifty years give a man a right to please himself — and not repelled by the three blue balls above the door, or the words "Money lent on pledges" in the window, entered boldly, and took possession of the premises. I hope and trust to exchange them for no other residence, till I am carried to my last narrow home in the church-yard.

      A man cannot live without his amusement. Now my riding days (if I could afford to keep a horse) are past and gone, and a rheumatic sportsman is a contradiction in terms which I have no fancy for reconciling in my own person. I never was much of a reader. My eyes are weak — and it is waste of time. I have fallen asleep over books in my youth, it is true; but that is only dull work as a man grows old. Whist is good for a change, but one can't play at it all day, except under peculiar circumstances. I remember once going to condole with a family who had lost a near relation; — they were four of them sitting round a table, looking sad enough. I was pleased to see them together, and took my seat sorrowfully among them, when, awkwardly enough, an ace of spades dropped on my knee from under the table-cloth, followed by the court and commons of the pack. Well — to return. — A news-room is not to compare with one's own paper in one's own chair by one's own window; and mine, I am happy to say, looks out into the very heart of a market-place, whence the principal streets of our busy little town diverge. 'Tis as good as a panorama — nothing that comes or goes escapes me — and if I do not choose to look abroad for my entertainment, I can find it within doors in the nicest way imaginable.

      Mine host's establishment is the oldest of its kind in the county, the business having descended for four generations from father to son in uninterrupted succession, which is now likely to be broken, as the present Mr. Smith is a bachelor, not inclined to the marriage state. His father doted upon it — it was meat and drink to him he used to say that it let him into the histories of all his neighbours — bad ones some of them were no doubt and when he grew too infirm to attend in the shop, he had a sort of sly peep-hole made in the floor, near the fire-place, which looked right down upon the counter to which the customers came. This had been closed up before I came; but I presently made Mr. Smith open it again. He knew I was discreet — and it is a constant source of amusement to me. My bed-room window, to be sure, is dull enough — it merely looks out upon the garden, and an orchard, and a river, and a hill on the other side, covered with furze bushes and what not: — but the other two supply me amply with opportunities for learning life — nothing being truer than the saw, that a man is never too old to learn.

      With tolerably good sight — I leave spectacles to the young folks and sufficiently nimble ears it may be supposed that the scenes I have witnessed and the tales I have heard are not a few — many an up and down has come before me such as I never dreamed of before; for as Miss Kitty (more commonly called Miss Smith) says, "theirs is not a common profession, if carried on honestly."

      And an honester woman you will not find than she is — search from Berwick-upon-Tweed to Penzance. She may know that she is not good looking, and has taken up honesty to make amends for her plain face. People used to try to teaze me about her — for she has money in the Bank — but, dear me! the sight of her thin face, mottled red and white like a wash-ball, and her long hard nose, and her large and sunken eyes, which always seem as if trying to look clear of her stingy straggling ringlets, is in itself enough to falsify any report; and of late they have let me alone: — not that we either of us cared for their nonsense, I am sure that she has been a positive blessing to the poor round about — many a pound has she given in shillings out of her own pocket, in spite of her brother's declaring she would be the ruin of his trade — many an old garment has she brought out to make up for the warm cloak or decent gown which as she has said, " had no business to come there," — and on Saturday nights, the kitchen (I have been down to look) is a perfect beggar's rest, — impostors and all. She says a meal's meat can do no one any harm, and she will give it to them — and somehow or other she always gets the upper hand of her brother, being a brave talker. And he had need give up to her in small matters, she having refused no fewer than three offers of marriage (one was the sexton's) to stay with him and keep his house.

      He, too, is an oddity; most people are so that are driven by the world to lead a lonely life, save in the way of business. To hear him talk to the folk that come near him, you would think him a hard man; his very black wig, which sits off above his ears like a penthouse, has a fierce look — and when he says a thing, he has a way of striking his stick on the ground (he has always a stick with him, even in the shop) that makes timid people afraid of him, and I don't know that he dislikes it. But he is a good man in the main, and has a wonderful number of fancies of his own — one, in particular, his being very fond of flowers and endlessly busy in growing them, I cannot think a sign of an unkind heart — though I have known some gardeners who were very wicked men, and one who beat his wife to death with a vine branch. He has a great many dumb pets too — cats, canaries, a cockatoo, and a dormouse — far more than Miss Kitty likes — and "such a plague as it is," she says, "to clean after them."

      This pair are a wonderful instance of love for each other. I have heard two lines like these (speaking, I believe, of an owl and his wife)

"Thrice happier in her since his fearful fate  Has reft him of all beside,"

which remind me (whenever I recollect them) of Smith and his sister. They were left easily off in the world when their father died; and, more to please their neighbours than themselves, I believe, would have given up business, had not the breaking of a bank compelled them to go on. Sad things those banks, as I, too, know to my cost! They have lived together ever since they were children, and never been separated for more than a month at a time. When she goes, as she does once in two years, to see her cousins, at Worcester, he walks about like a lost man all the time she is away. I would advise no one who wishes to get anything extra out of him to come a-borrowing then; and he always contrives to make some particular pink, or other choice flower, blow just upon the day when she is coming home (her visits being always paid in summer). If the coach be ten minutes later than the usual time, you may see him fidgetting with his hand under his wig, the very picture of discontent, looking sourer and sourer every moment — his eyes fixed upon the clock in front of the Frightened Horse — till he hears the wheels; and yet, to see them meet, you would not fancy they cared much about each other, — save from his making out that she looks no better for her journey, and his invariable greeting, "Well, Kitty, let this last you."

      One good trait in these old-fashioned people I must mention: their having maintained their nurse to the last moment of her life, and treated her with as much respect and carefulness as if she had been their mother. For nearly a year I thought it was so, till it occurred to me as odd that they should call her plain Judy; and then I asked, and found out the truth. Miss Kitty would have her nurse's picture taken by one of those travelling drawing-masters, and there it hangs over the chimney-piece in their little dark parlour, — not a bit like her; and he has gone and put a rose into poor old Judy's large bony hand! A stocking would have been fitter, for she was always knitting.

      Some will think I have been prosy over all these little things, but it is far better to tell them and have done with them, and then there can be no further curiosity nor disappointment. I am a lone man — I have lost kindred, money and friends — it is odd how the last two hang together — and have become strangely attached to my present habitation and its inmates, brute and human; and now I am sitting down to tell a few things I can recollect, — why, I scarcely know, only, as Miss Kitty says, and she has always a proverb at her tongue's end, "Where is the good of experience, if others are not to benefit by it?"

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      I HAVE promised to put down a few of the things I have seen and heard, and yet, now that I fairly set about it, I scarcely know where I am to begin. Miss Kitty, however, to whom I mentioned my intention, and who reads in her way, and will sometimes bring her novel, or good book, up stairs with her on a wet evening, and go on with great fluency, obliged me with a hint: "Do be genteel in your stories, Mr. Townsend," said she, "for your own sake, and the credit of those you live with. Depend upon it, Court ladies like to hear of gentlemen and ladies, and nothing beneath them." I promised to consider what she said, and it is as well to please the ladies when it makes no difference. Besides, I had already begun turning in my mind some notable events which had happened in our neighbourhood, in a mansion called, because of its colour, "The Red House."

      The suburbs of the town I live in, are, as every one knows, peculiarly pleasant. There are few poor houses bordering on the country, but mostly small sweet cottages, set in herb gardens, with flowers climbing up against them. Basket-Makers' Row, in particular, I would match against any street of its length in the kingdom. The trade is a clean one, and the people who follow it are civil and respectful. It is a favourite walk of mine, though the numberless children who play all day long upon the causeway are a nuisance, and their squalling sometimes puts me past my patience, when I throw my stick after them to make them quiet. Perhaps I like the walk, because I think more of the tall trees behind the dense heavy wall which overtops the houses, and the domain which they enclose, than either baskets or cottages. At the end of the row are a pair of immense solid wooden gates, formerly painted green, and beyond then the wall again, and the trees above it so thick and solemn-looking, that they make the foot-way underneath them quite gloomy. I am mostly a fancier of cheerful things, and I am sure I don't know why this walk is so favourite a one of mine.

      Within those gates every thing is yet more desolate than any one could fancy. The grounds round about the Red House are not large, and are surrounded quite by that high wall. The person who laid them out must have had what the gardeners call "a tree fever," for they are planted all over, quite dismal; and I have heard that it was necessary to light candles in the Red House half an hour before they were wanted in any of the cottages. If this be true, I could not have lived there for a week.

      The garden, too, is in a sad neglected state; and I cannot understand that it was ever planned properly. There are long lines of high walls where the sun could scarcely ever come, and old apple and damson trees planted so close together that they quite choked each other; and all the walks are grass walks, (preposterous for wet weather!) edged with laurels, now so thick and tall that there is no seeing over them. Every thing is so close and damp, that nothing can hope to thrive properly. The hot-house frames are rotting to bits, and the pond before them is enough to breed a pestilence, though the house was inhabited scarcely five years ago.

      The mansion is just as gloomy, and (in my opinion) as good-for-little as the garden. It is a great square house, three stories high, the very picture of an hospital; all small windows and chimney-stacks: — and round the west story there is a sort of piazza, which must make the rooms dark at noon-day. There is not one large room in it, though enough to make it fit for a barrack, if we should (Heaven forbid!) ever go to war again. The staircase is just like the way into a well. All the rooms up stairs have double doors, and there are large waste mouldy closets, where no daylight can come, or, at best, lighted from narrow passages. I have heard a sea-faring man, in my youth, describe the Inquisition at Goa, and the Red House always reminds me of his account of that awful prison. And yet it would make a famous hotel, with such a tea-garden! and there is plenty of room (if the trees were cut down) on the east lawn for a bowling-green. Some one, perhaps, who reads this, may profit by the hint.

      The last inhabitants of the Red House quitted it, as I have said, scarcely five years ago. These were the Bellasys family; a stranger race of people never was seen. I never could find out what stock they were sprung from. Irish, French, and Mulatto mixed, I should think, from their extraordinary fashions. They had travelled half over the world, and every one of the four daughters had been born in a different country; the son was born at sea. Whether Mrs. Bellasys was a widow, or only separated from her husband, could never be properly made out; some even said — but I know better than to pen old scandals. They were high Catholics, however, and set themselves above the rest of the town, as if they had been so many queens — giving out, when they took the Red House, that they wanted no society, and were therefore "not at home" to the few who would not take the hint, and went to call. This gave great offence, for our ladies wanted to see how the house was fitted up, and like no fibs but what they tell themselves. As for the son, Colonel Bellasys, no one could tell what to make of him. Many said that he shut himself up in the house for weeks and weeks together, and was never seen even by his own mother and sisters. A very tall man he was, six feet two at least, with the darkest complexion I ever saw, and his face shut up in thick bushy black hair. He looked as if he fasted and never slept. I have seen some in whom it was a disease, and know the look of their hungry, leaden, wakeful eyes. I was, somehow or other, sorry for him, as he used to ride about on that glorious black horse of his, for which, it was said, he paid two hundred guineas — a great price indeed, if true.

      The Red House was always full of staying company — people who came in dozens at a time — and just went away when one was becoming tired of seeing them in the streets, for they were endlessly driving about. They used to sit up all night playing cards and music — Miss Clara Bellasys being as good a singer, Miss Kitty used to say, as Handel himself. She had been told so by Miss Clara's maid, with whom she had scraped an acquaintance, and by whose means she came at the knowledge of what further I am about to tell.

      Mrs. Bellasys, it seems, was an arrant match-maker, and yet she could never get rid of any of her daughters; all showy-looking girls, too, and who spent a fortune on their backs. Party after party came — gentleman after gentleman — and rode away without taking any of the Miss Bellasys with them, or coming back to fetch them: — a disappointment I take it. Miss Kitty began to be quite uneasy about it; for having given up all thoughts of matrimony herself, she has leisure to think of her neighbours.

      "Well, it's to be the Colonel, now," said she one evening; "there is a great heiress being fetched from Cornwall to be married to him — such preparations as they are making! They have given up all hopes for Miss Julia, ever since Major Dickenson went; but she has won a handsome sum from him at some game of cards, at which only two play together, so it is of less consequence."

      "Why, Miss Kitty?"

      "It is the fashion of the house, Mr. Townsend; and Mrs. Prince would not be so familiar with me as she is, if she were not sometimes short of money. You need not say so in my brother's hearing, though."

      "Never fear me, I am very discreet."

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      A few days after this, the cavalcade arrived. A party had come all the way from London to meet Sir Edgar Le More and his daughters. A cook had been sent for, from the same place, on purpose to dress the dinners, and heaps of gay clothes for the young ladies. It was hard upon our townsfolk to see all this driving from shop to shop — all this unpacking of parcels off the waggon, day after day, and to know that this was all they would see. They talked it over not a little, and agreed that Sir Edgar was a very fine, stately, handsome old gentleman, with the best powdered head ever seen in our streets. His daughter was not thought so much of; she was little and brown, and laughed at everything; her mouth, too, some said, was crooked, which made the two sides of her face different. Her companion, Miss Morison, was a pale, down-cast looking girl, whom every one was sorry for, and pitied her shabby blue spencer, till I was weary of hearing of it.

      Miss Kitty was in her glory, for she knew all that was going on. I was edging in a sly question or two, one evening, when she was arranging my tea-things, when she stopped me with — "I tell you, Mr. Townsend, the long and the short of the matter is, that if all end well with that family, either my name is not Catherine Smith, or there is no justice in heaven!"

      "Why, Miss Kitty, what makes you say so?"

      "It is a wretched tale, Sir, about poor Miss Millicent, the youngest of the ladies, and the gravest of them all — no wonder! — and it happened when they were living at King's Chedworth. She fell in love with a poor, quiet young man; he was a painter, Sir — I mean of pictures — and had no money, and so of course none of the family would hear of it. Such a life as her sisters led her, Mrs. Prince tells me! — mocking at them both, and asking her how she would like to live in a garret and turn colour-grinder. But Miss Millicent never heeded them. They tell me shes as quiet as a mill-pond, still and deep. Well, they grew angrier and angrier about the matter, and at last got to watching for his letters to her, and opening them — a shame upon them! One, which told how he was coming down into the neighbourhood on purpose to be near her, and full enough of love to melt a heart of stone, they showed to Mr. Bellasys, the Colonel's eldest brother, a fine dashing young man, as handsome, and as proud as Lucifer. Well, he laid in wait for this poor young Osborne (that was the painter's name), and as soon as ever he came down, met with him, and told him (I dare say not very civilly) that the thing must be given up once for all. The young fellow was spirited, though so gentle, and would not hear of such a thing, and high words passed between them. The end was, that they went out together. O the wickedness of those duels! They met in the little grove at the foot of Chedworth Hill; poor Osborne was nothing of a marksman — how should he? — Mr. Bellasys shot him stone dead at the first fire."

      "And what was the end of it?"

      "He got away, Sir: — got abroad, and may be living there still, for aught I know; but for all they are so gay and victorious, the family has never been like itself, Mrs. Prince tells me, since the thing happened. And there's something or other which makes Mrs. Bellasys desperately anxious to get one of her daughters, or her son married, any how. Well, no good can come of it." So saying, and shaking her head mysteriously, Miss Kitty left the room.

      It happened that for the next few days I had no opportunity of having any chat with her, but I noticed that she went about the house like one who has got a secret fast — I know the looks of such people. It was an understood thing that there was to be a great party given at the Red House that very night, and many more strangers were expected to arrive. Every lady in the town was up in arms about it. "Come all the way from the other side of Worcester, and none of us invited! Were there ever such airs? — not that it is of any consequence!" I wonder, if this last was true, why they talked so much about the matter.

      I own that, towards night-fall, I stole out to see whether I could make any discoveries; and through one of the gates which was open, as a carriage and four drove in, I could catch a peep at the Red House, all lighted up, and looking like a lantern; for there came a blaze from every window, bright enough to be seen miles off, had not the house stood so low, and been choked up so by trees. I will also confess, that somehow or other, I could not settle to go up to bed as usual, and, from the occasional step in the room above my head, it would seem as if Miss Kitty was no more sleepy than myself. And this was all owing to the gossip which had been going on about this same party. One would have thought that people at our sensible time of life might have been wiser.

      Well, this was just beginning to occur to me, and I was on the point of raking out my fire (a practice I never omit), when, just as the clock had chimed the last quarter to one, I heard a carriage come rattling down the market-place as though Death had been behind it: — no guests, I was sure, for none of them had come through the town, and why should they go back that way? And so fast too — I never heard any thing like the speed. As it flew across the end of the street opposite to our house, just close under a lamp, I saw, I was confident I did, the Le More livery. "Bless us!" said I to myself, "what ever can it mean at this dead time of night?" — and I declare I heard my heart beat as if it had been a mill going. Once I thought I would go out again, and try if I could find out whether any thing was the matter; but I was half ashamed of my curiosity; — besides I had already a sore throat, and the night was very damp.

      Another good hour did we wait (for I could be sure that Miss Kitty had never quitted the window at which she rooted herself when the chaise came flying past), but there was nothing more that night, and so at last, quite worn out, I went to bed. Such dreams as I was troubled with! — but if I were to tell them, people would say I was doting. In the morning, before I had awaked, much less got up, all had got out, and was buzzed about the town from one end of it to the other. Miss Kitty was the person who told me. "Mr. Townsend," said she — but on second thoughts, I will begin at the beginning, and tell it in my own plain way.

      That ball had been planned by Mrs. Bellasys, it seems, to bring the matter on which she had set her heart a step nearer its end, though the youth was so shy and sulky that she was like to despair. Miss Le More, however, did not appear to notice it, which was a comfort. A very splendid thing, I do suppose, that ball was; and as all the guests came from long distances, it broke up early; perhaps it might be a dinner party, with dancing after. I can't tell, but the house I know, was cleared by twelve o'clock, save of those who were going to stay all night.

      Mrs. Bellasys had done her best; but brick and mortar won't stretch beyond a certain point, and she was obliged to ask Miss Morison to go into Miss Millicent's room, just for that one night, making the less scruple, of course, as she was only a companion. The young ladies (I had my tale direct from Miss Kitty) were both very glad to retire, as they had driven a long way in the morning to look at a ruin some miles off, and both had been dancing hard all night. Miss Le More had declined dancing — "she hated it, and of all things in a country house." Not over civil to Mrs. Bellasys, who had made the party expressly for her; but then, to be sure, she might say what she pleased.

      Well, the two young ladies went up to their room, and Miss Morison soon was in bed, and laid down. I should have said that they were to sleep together. Miss Millicent had no maid like the rest of her sisters, so they were alone; and after some little delay, and fidgetting about the room, she followed her companion's example.

      But she did not lie down, or settle; she was half sitting up, busy with something underneath the clothes; and if she stopped, it was only for a moment, so that there was no chance for sleeping; and at last, Miss Morison, who was very weary, began to grow impatient.

      "Dear Miss Bellasys," said she, "I wish you would lie down, and be quiet."

      Miss Millicent made no answer, and did stop for a moment, when, just as her companion was dropping asleep, she disturbed her again, worse than ever.

      "Do be still, Miss Bellasys," cried the other, almost sharply; "what can you be about?"

      "Whetting a knife," was the strange answer.

      "Whetting a knife at this time of night!" exclaimed Miss Morison, wakening up.

      "Yes, I am whetting a knife on the sole of my shoe," replied the other, going on with her work under the clothes.

      "What for?"

      "To cut your throat!" — I am told that she spoke quite calmly.

      Miss Morison did not know what to make of her; but at all events there was no lying still after such a wild speech, so she sprang up, only half awake. Her first impulse was to get out of bed. The other laid her hand on her shoulder.

      "You need not," said she, "you may spare yourself the trouble. I have locked the door, and the key is in my pocket, and I have thrown up the bell-rope on the top of the bed;" and sure enough, Miss Morison saw that this much was true, and that she had a small knife clenched in her hand.

      Miss Morison was on the floor in an instant, screaming with terror, and looking round for a way to escape; the other preparing to follow her, but like one too sure of her aim, to be in a hurry. Half dead with terror, Miss Morison flew at one door — it was locked — Miss Millicent, who was now out of bed, laughed.

      There was another door, however, in the chamber, and by good luck this was open; it opened inside too. Miss Morison made to it, and by her forehead striking violently against shelves, became aware that it only led to a small closet. It was, however, between her and that fearful creature, which was something; and spurning her feet against the opposite wall, she leaned her full weight against it. But the other was very strong, and tried hard to get in.

      I have said that some of the closets at the Red House received light from the staircases; this, by Providence's mercy, happened to be of the number. The terrified girl cast her hands round her for some weapon of defence; there was none the closet containing only china — till it occurred to her that there must be a window, as she perceived a faint glimmer of light. And now, almost crazy with fear, (for her strength was failing her, and the other every moment becoming more and more furious), she began to throw all the fine old bowls and dishes (a pity!) at this glass; some went through, she heard by the sound. She knew that they must have fallen within the house, and went on, shrieking for help, till the family was fairly roused. Sir Edgar le More, I am told, was the first out of his room.

      Well, before they could get at poor Miss Morison, they had to break open Miss Millicent's door; and when they got into the bed-room, they found the poor creature raving mad, and pushing against the closet door with all her might and main, the knife in her hand. The gentlemen could hardly force her away, she was so violent; and she even wounded one or two of them.

      It appeared that she had been out of her mind before, owing to her love troubles, no doubt; and that though she had been pronounced cured, the heat and the fatigue and the bustle of company had brought the fit on again. Perhaps the gossip about the wedding which was to be, might have something to do with it likewise. However this may be, Sir Edgar le More was in a towering passion, and would not be pacified. He said, and it was true enough, that it was a scandalous thing to put a person in her state to sleep with any young lady, much less his daughter; for then it came out, that Miss Morison was the real heiress, and the other only a companion. She had not thought much of the family, it seems, and had taken that means to try what they were like. It was clever of her, and I have seen such things done in plays, but never before in real life.

      Mrs. Bellasys was dumb-foundered; she had slighted Miss Morison (that had pretended to be) so openly; and I verily believe, cared more for the loss of the heiress than for the frightful calamity which had befallen her poor daughter. But all her excuses and her protestations and her explanations did nothing with Sir Edgar. He declared he would not stay in the house another hour, and made his servants bring out his carriage there and then. He was a very proud and positive man, and in spite of all that they could say or do, drove off at once and spent the remainder of the night (for I do not suppose any of them slept overmuch) at the Rose. The tale was over all the town the first thing in the morning, and it was a tale no family could stand, much less one so unpopular as the family at the Red House had been.

      And they did not pretend to face it, for before a week was over, they had one and all set out for London, leaving, it was said, poor Miss Millicent in a madhouse by the way. What became of them afterwards I never could hear, nor Miss Kitty either; though some one told her, that he had seen Miss Catherine dancing on the stage at Drury Lane. But this was never clearly proved, nor the rumour that the family had lost their property made sure; so that I will waste no paper in conjectures. All I know is, that no one has taken the Red House since they left it: a lonesome place it looks, and I don't wonder that people say it's haunted. I wish some one would furnish it up and inhabit it again. But they say it is to be taken down, and the building materials sold for what they will fetch.

      My hand is quite cramped; so no more for the present.

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      I AM but short-tempered at the best of times: I hate being disturbed in my own ways. Most especially do I dislike stupid prosy morning callers, who come brimful of bustle just to pry and see what one is about; and ever since that spruce, bold Mrs. Sandilands would make her way in, to take shelter, as she said, when I was sitting in my night-cap without my wig, — I have forbidden Miss Kitty to let any one up without leave. There are some days when the street cries of sweeps and oyster women, and the old rag-picker, who has no end to her breath, make me quite cross and red in the face. I was once fined five shillings for baptizing a black, oily-looking hurdy-gurdy man with a basin of water, so worn out was I with his eternal hundredth psalm. But, of all things (though I am very tidy in the main) I cannot bear white-washings. Besides being turned out of one's own room, there's all the splash and bustle and disturbance; and ever since I found my pepper and salt spencer hanging against the wall — looking for all the world as if it had been pelted with comfits, and it had only been a week out of the shop — I have had no patience with white-washings — no wonder.

      When these calamities happen, I am sent to sit below stairs in the back parlour, and a blind is hung over the little glass door, which looks into the shop, so that one might as well be in a nunnery. Plenty of amusement, no doubt, there would be, for one who was a reader — as all the books upon which money is lent are there — and a queer medley they are. But I have said that I am not a reader, and if it comes a wet day, and I can't get out, Miss Kitty takes good care to keep out of my way — for she is tender-hearted, and a hard word will make her cry at any time. She peeps in at the door, now and then, it is true, to see how I am going on, but no more — and hushes all the workmen, if she hears them shout. On the whole she is very considerate, and has the more merit, for she cannot know that I have remembered her in my will. One evening I was very uncomfortable indeed, for my umbrella was broken, had I been disposed to venture through the shower — and the workmen had begun so early that morning, that I was forced to get up at cock-crow — a bad thing that same rising betimes, it is sure to make the best humoured man proud or peevish all day! Well, I was imprisoned as usual in Miss Kitty's den, as she calls it — and very like a caged wild beast I felt — there was no newspaper to be had no one came to lend or borrow — never a bit of news stirring — so, in a bitter bad humour, I was even obliged to have recourse to the shelf: the first six books I took down were bibles — what a shame!

      The next I laid my hand upon, I was more lucky in (not meaning any disrespect to the above — only one does not read good books for amusement): it was an old, a very old music book, almost the first collection of songs published in England, I dare say, set by Mr. Handel and Mr. Leveridge, and Signor Buononcini (I copied the name letter for letter), and Dr. Greene — something about sweet Florimel" his was. There was "Mad Bess," too; and really I think that they might have found something a little more respectable to sing about than such a dismal crazeling as she looked in the picture at the top of the song. All the songs had pictures; such fine genteel ladies in hoops, and waists no thicker than my wrist, and such well behaved smiling gentlemen — those were the days for dress! and there was the "Dejected Lass" in a joseph and high-crowned hat, poking at a pet lamb with a crook; and the "Melancholy Nymph" going to drown herself, with bare legs — very disagreeable — and the "Lapland Lover" on his skates in a good warm fur tippet. There are no such amusing pictures now-a-days, except on tea-cups.

      Well, I really quite forgot myself over this book, and began to read some of the songs up, to make them quite plain to me, when, suddenly — but I will give the song — as one cannot be too particular when one writes what is to be printed.

THE FRANK LOVER. "O Chloe! do not look so proud, With pouting lip, and flashing eye,  Nor lift thy pretty voice aloud, In scorn of my sincerity;  That thou wert fair I always knew,  But not that thou wert faultless too! "I've likened thee in many a song To Dian of the starry night,  Nor can thy beauty suffer wrong If matched with hers — the empress bright  Yet shadows on her face there be,  Like to the trifling flaws in thee. "For thou hast wit — and lend'st it oft To vain caprice, and sly pretence;  Pride climbs thy marble brow aloft, And folly sometimes clouds thy sense —  Nay, frown not, if the truth I tell;  Thou knowest withal I love thee well! "And thou art dearer, O by far! Than some insipid, perfect maid,  Whose polished charms as dazzling are As gaudy tints unchecked by shade. —  Then, charming Chloe, cease to frown,  This honest heart is all thine own!"

      "And a very sensible fellow, too!" said I, when I had spelled it out — "worth a dozen of your flashy lovers in those romances," — when, lo! and behold! there was such a large sigh close to my ear! I turned round briskly — no one can bear to be caught talking to himself — and there stood Miss Kitty with tears in her eyes —

      "What in the world," I began —

      "Now don't say any thing sharp, Mr. Townsend; I did not know that book was there — and it makes me quite sorrowful to look at it. Dear, dear, how many stories must belong to it, besides what I know."

      The cunning woman! — she knows well how to escape from a scolding — for there is nothing I love half so well as a story! So I put aside my wig from over my right ear — (she had only come in to bring my tea after all), and I made her sit down and take a cup with me, which she is unwilling to do, on common occasions, not thinking it discreet. To pacify me, however, because it was white-washing time, she consented, and told me how they came by that old music-book.

      "You have heard, I dare say, Mr. Townsend," began Miss Kitty, "of the banker, in whose hands my poor father had all his money. Mr. Macnamara was his name: my father's sister was his housekeeper; let me see — no matter how many years ago — and I was a good deal at the Hall — then a little child running about, scarcely six years old — the servants used to tease me and call me 'Fright.'

      "The Hall, as it was only called — though its whole name was Durham Hall, was a grand place indeed, Mr. Townsend. Huge long galleries full of pictures, standing as high as life, and bed-rooms without end, and a vestibule and staircase that you might have held Parliament in; five men servants in the house, and carriages and horses I can't tell how many; and all for only Mr. Macnamara, his wife, and their daughter. He was plain enough — just a common-looking man, with a short leg, who had little to say out of the Bank; but his wife was fit for a queen. She was six feet high at least, and not awkward, as some of your may-pole ladies are, and with large keen black eyes, like eagles' eyes, and a fine Roman nose, and hair that came to her knees when let down. The hair-dresser from Worcester begged to be allowed to bring his young man all that way only to see it. And her motions were so stately, — always gliding about, never tossing her head, nor stopping short, — always a glide. I think I see her with her long purple velvet train sweeping behind her, and her deep lace ruffles at her elbows, giving her orders to my aunt in the stillest voice possible, without moving a muscle of her face. She once gave me a guinea, too, I remember; she had dropped it, and I picked it up and ran after her with it. 'Take it away, child,' said she, 'and never let me see you in this part of the house again."

      "But, oh, she had a spirit! I have heard it said that she kept all the ladies round about in famous order, though she was not as well born as many. She never forgot herself — she never gave herself airs; but she got the mastery over every body, and kept it. No one liked her; her ways were so stately, her curtsey so freezing. She never laughed, a smile was all; and she talked little. When Mr. Macnamara had any business company (that is, when she let him have it), she never opened her lips at the head of her own table. She gave so much away in charity to the poor, in such and such sums, but not a penny more, if you would have prayed to her on your bare knees. She went regularly to church, and always sat in her pew; never knelt, nor stood up, and, to make a long tale short, took as much pains as she could to make her daughter the very image and picture of herself; and I verily believe that, of the two, Miss Macnamara (her Christian name was Sybil) was the haughtier; for she was brought up to it from her cradle, whereas her mother came to the tip-top of her pride by degrees. I remember when she was quite a little thing, a gipsy happened to come up to the avenue gates, and nothing would serve the child but she would have her fortune told. Well, the fortune-teller knew what she was about, and, besides, her palm had been crossed with a new crown-piece, so she prophesied that Miss Sybil should marry a very rich man, and have two carriages to ride in. 'Only two!' exclaimed the child, in a great passion, 'get away, you nasty gipsey. — only two! Papa has four already!' and with that she walked off, with her mother's grandest air, and she scarcely four years old!

      "I suppose you will think me desperately mean spirited, but I must confess, that I always admired this pride, both in the old lady and the young one. It seemed like something they were born to, and, feeling so, makes me thank God I am poor; for if it had been otherwise, I am sure I should have been like them, — ay, and worse.

      "To go on, — when she was seventeen, Sybil Macnamara married the richest man in all the country round, and of the oldest family, too, — Colonel Brackwell, of Brackwell; a splendid place it is. The connexion was delightful to Mrs. Macnamara. Some said she shut her eyes and her ears to all but the grand estate and the title that was to come: and there was a story of a poor girl who was found drowned in one of the Brackwell fish-ponds on the morning of the wedding-day, about which more would have been said had the Colonel been a poorer man. However, the old lady was thought to know this, and more; and I have heard, that to some one who had brought her some such piece of scandal, she answered, 'Never fear for Sybil — she is my daughter.' But it turned out that the Colonel was not quite so manageable as that poor dry little Mr. Macnamara.

      "I never saw such a magnificent looking couple, he was fair, for a man, and she was very dark. And, bless you, she did queen it when she was taken home! Of course, all the ladies round about Brackwell called upon her, but she went near never a one of them, not she! — and it got out that she had said she should go to the hunt-ball, and make her husband point them out to her, and she might, perhaps, return the visits of such as she liked the looks of!

      "If this was true, it might be the beginning of Colonel Brackwell's unkindness to her; or he might have heard something about Mr. Macnamara's bank; — we poor folks never did till it went. The two together killed Mrs. Macnamara, — nay, in addition to this, her daughter had behaved insolently to her, who loved no one else, I am sure. All these things together, however, broke her down at once, and she died a few days after the failure. But, dear me, I have missed telling you how, when she tried to make peace between Colonel Brackwell and his wife, both of them turned upon her, and how she was mobbed in her own garden, two days after the bank broke. Well, she died, and no one was sorry for her. How can you expect it, when half the people in the town were ruined outright by the failure, and it had been all brought on by her grand ways; for if I were to begin to tell you the out-of-the-way extravagancies she committed, I might make tea for you till breakfast time.

      "There was a shilling in the pound for the creditors; and of all of them, none was madder than Colonel Brackwell, who from this time began to use his wife shamefully, leaving her for ⸻, but you will in propriety excuse that branch of the subject. For a time, however, they kept up an amazing show; nay, it was afterwards said, that when they were not worth ten thousand pounds, they entertained the King and Queen, and that Mrs. Brackwell had handsomer diamonds and lace than Her Majesty. How they went on so long is a mystery; but the Colonel was guardian to some orphan children, and when they came of age they had to whistle for their property. I do believe, that a more thoroughly wicked man never was let loose on earth. They had a large family; but Mrs. Brackwell must have been an indifferent mother, for she left her first baby when it was three months old, to go to Bath for some nonsense or other, — I think to see Garrick, perhaps it was, — and when she came back, the child had had neglected convulsions, or some accident, no one could ever tell, but the upshot of it was, that he turned out an idiot. I don't wonder at the Colonel's being angry about that.

      "However, that bubble burst, too, in due time, and people began to whisper about what was going on at Brackwell, — trees cutting down, tenants racked for rent, bills unpaid, and some grew bold enough to ask for their money. These reports began to grow more and stronger; and yet neither he nor she gave in. He was spending, so they said, a fortune on his race-horses, and she on her dress and equipages. I remember once, in particular, seeing her in her open carriage, which stopped for an instant opposite our shop door; — I never saw anything more beautiful; she was dressed in a pale green satin pelisse, with a transparent hat, and a long veil down to her knees; but I fancied she looked anxious, and a friend of mine from Worcester, who was with me, knows and declares that there was rouge on her cheeks."

      "And what was the end of it, Miss Kitty?" said I.

      "If you are tired of my story, there is enough to do in the house, I am sure," said she, rising with a little jerk. She does not like being interrupted.

      "Nay, Miss Kitty, sit down again, and conclude, I beg of you. I was so interested, that I quite forgot my manners."

      A few words suffice for Miss Kitty, so she sat down and proceeded:—

      "Well, it was not quite a twelvemonth after this, that Brackwell was advertised to be let; the family were going abroad for the sake of educating the children. I said nothing, but from that instant was sure how things would end; and for my part, I never knew any good come of people going abroad. Brackwell was let — and, let me see — it was five — seven — eight good years before we heard any thing more of them. They had only stayed a winter in Paris, and then went on no one knew whither. In fact, they were quite forgotten in the neighbourhood, till one summer day we heard that they were returning to England before winter; and in process of time the Caldecots turned out, sorry we were to lose them! — and the Brackwells came back to their old quarters.

      "But what a change, to be sure! Mrs. Brackwell, who, when she left England, was the gayest of the gay, and almost, to my thinking, the most beautiful woman I ever set eyes upon, — to see her come back so quiet, so altered — all her haughty spirits gone — and looking forty at the least, — I declare to you I should never have known her, had I not seen her in the carriage, and remembered the turn of her neck, which was quite perfect, just like a swan's. We were sure she must have suffered much, for she was now grown as gentle as she had been proud — very silent, and visited with nobody; and they said, had taken to religion, and read prayers to the servants twice a day. I should have said that the Colonel did not come down with her, or I dare say he would never have allowed such a good custom. All the people sneered, and talked, and wondered what would come next.

      "They had not long to wonder; for before long we heard of some very strange-looking men down at the hall; and the next thing was, that all the Colonel's horses were to be sold. The French governess, too, Mademoiselle Rouget (an ugly sallow old woman she was, but there might be reasons which made her preferable to a prettier girl in that house) was sent away; the Miss Brackwells needed no further instruction, — a fine family they were, but entirely got the mastery over their mother, proud as she had been, — and, save the second son, who gained the first honours at college, never a one of them turned out well.

      "People were beginning to know what this meant; the servants, too, began to make very long visits to their friends. Brackwell Hall was found out to be damp (it was quite a new house); and the long and short of the matter was, that the family quitted it, and the place was sold. Still no news of Colonel Brackwell; and we wondered whether he knew what was going on, and supposed he kept away because he did not like to face his old neighbours, over whom he had lorded it so. Some said he was in the King's Bench, some that he was hiding from his creditors. His wife and children left the neighbourhood, and from that time forth we did not hear of them for two years at least.

      "Well, what I am going to tell you seems like a dream, but for all that it is true. I was one evening walking home from the nursery-gardens rather later than usual, and alone, when on the causeway before me, about a mile out of town, I was struck by the appearance of a person walking, so meanly dressed, that I should not have remarked her, had it not been for a certain air I thought I could not forget. I was absolutely shocked by the fancy, and made all possible haste to overtake the figure, who had no mind to be overtaken, it seemed, for as I walked faster she walked faster, till at length I fairly got into a run. You know that I am tolerably nimble on my feet, and she, it seemed, was very weak, for I overtook her presently, and she was breathing quite hard, ready to drop. Good woman,' I said, 'if you are tired, you are quite welcome to my arm;' — but she shrunk away into the hedge row, and said nothing. Some how or other, I never was so curious; and as I stared hard at her, the wind blew her rusty green veil aside, just for one moment, and I was right: — after all it was Mrs. Brackwell.

      "Well, I declare I turned quite cold to see her there so meanly dressed, and alone, and at that time of night, and I would have given anything I had not spoken to her, poor thing! for I was sure she must be in sad trouble to be brought so low; she, that never used to stir a step, save into her carriage and from it again! I would not have looked again for the world, whatever had been the consequence. I walked home as fast as I could, never once turning my head; and I was so particular that I did not even mention what I had seen to my brother, because I know men can't keep secrets if they would."

      I did not quite agree with this; but it was best not to contradict her, when I was curious to come to the end of the story.

      "It might be a few months from this time," continued Miss Kitty, "that I was sitting alone one Monday evening, my brother having gone over to Worcester on some business, when I was aroused by a small modest tap at the house door, and, I don't know why, but I made haste to open it, before Jessy, the girl that I had then, could come up from the kitchen. I was glad I had done so, for there she was again, standing quite still in the twilight, with a large bundle and a book under her arm, and the same coarse bonnet and rusty green veil. If I had not remembered these I should have known her again by her voice, as she said, 'If you please, Miss Smith, can I speak with you alone?'

      "So humble! and she the grand Mrs. Brackwell that was! Surely, Ma'am,' said I, as civilly as I could, pretending not to know her; 'will you walk this way; perhaps you won't mind there being no lights in the back parlour;' and I called Jessy up to mind the shop, and ordered her not to disturb me unless I was wanted very particularly, and shut the door.

      "'Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Brackwell,' said I, finding her unwilling to speak.

      "'Ah, then! you know me?' she cried, bursting into a passion of tears. Can you believe it — and brought so low?' She sobbed so violently that I was afraid of hysterics, and, bringing out some wine, prevailed on her to sip a little; and, do you know, it did her good, for I verily believe she was faint for want of food. I would have offered her some tea, but I dared not.

      "After a while she came round a little; and seeing that I was sorry for her, opened her mind to me, — and what a tale of misery she had to tell! I could not help shedding tears while she was talking. — O, Mr. Townsend, you men do all the wickedness in this world, and we poor women have to suffer for it!

      "Her husband, it seems, had used her like a brute, as he was, left her for other women, beaten her violently, and worse: and yet she had always taken his part, and when he was put into gaol by his creditors, she would actually send him money out of the allowance they made her, though he never wrote her a kind word, or sent her a kind message, but was always grumbling that she had not more for him. Well, his creditors came to the hearing of this, and so angry were they at his knavery, that they threatened they would stop the allowance if she persisted; and she said she could not help it: he was her husband, and she would not give him up, however bad he was. I have not told you half of his villainies. So the end was, that they were as good as their word, and left her just barely enough to live upon, and no more; and she was compelled — she, who had never done a stitch of work since she was at school — to take in plain sewing to make both ends meet — for she had no turn for economy: how should she, brought up by that grand Mrs. Macnamara?

      "She had left her daughters at board with an old servant, her sons were at school, and had absolutely come down here alone, to work like a slave. There were other reasons too which made her leave them: I am told they used her very shamefully while quite children, and she was anxious to be in the neighbourhood to consult her own attorney, who told her something might yet perhaps be saved from the wreck of the property. O she was a changed woman! and I could hardly bear to hear her thanking God for her troubles, which, she said, had been scarcely hard enough to bring her to her senses.

      "All this time her husband was writing reproachful letters to her, and asking her for money, and she had that evening absolutely walked down from her lodgings in the country three miles, to him, weak as she was, to see if I would privately lend her a little money upon a silk cloak, the last of her good clothes which remained to her, and upon that old music-book — her mother's it had been — and she thought perhaps she might redeem them some day or other, and wished the thing to be kept secret from my brother. The money was to send to her husband in prison."

      Here the bell rang. "I must go," said Miss Kitty, rising hastily.

      "But just stay, do, and tell me what became of her."

      "She died, Sir, within three months after; died of working so hard and a broken heart. He is in gaol still, and the children some here, some there: I don't know much about them. I nursed her to the last, and no one else; and I never look at that old music book without thinking how little do we know to what we may be brought before we die."

      "Very true," said I to myself, as the door closed upon Miss Kitty, " who in the world would have thought of my turning author in my old days?"

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      I SHOULD like to hear one good reason given for people's keeping New Year's-day. Though the ways of the world we live in now are not, to my fancy, half as good, or as worth following, as those of the world into which we were born, — still (I would not admit it to everybody) I cannot but think that it is an improvement to drop all the silly noise and junketing and merry-making; because, forsooth, we are grown twelve months older, — have a handful more of grey hairs on our heads — or a handful less of hair of any colour, — or because we maybe have lost a tooth or two, — since the first of last January. What did the people mean? If the world's a good one, there's no occasion to stop at every stage in our journey through it, and clap our hands like a parcel of children, because we are so much the nearer its end, and that end a dismal one; — if we are out of humour with it because of its losses and crosses, we can have no heart to make merry, and less to look back upon what we have lost. And why can't we let the old year die quietly? I am no reformer, but, I promise you, that if I could get my own way in matters, there should be no keeping of New Year's-day.

      Miss Kitty, to whom I have said as much, does not see how the thing could be managed; but that all comes from her being so fond of old customs. She has also a little bit of a liking for ceremonies and out-of-the-way fashions: for instance, though as for from being a methodist as I am from being O'Connell, she always goes to their chapel on New Year's-eve — or the "Watch Night," as they call it, and takes her brother with her, wakening him up when twelve o'clock is going to strike, for he has a sad habit of dropping asleep in places of worship, though he tries to excuse it by saying he always dreams of such good things. The consequence of this chapel-going fancy of Miss Kitty's is, that I am generally left in the house alone on that evening; and sit brewing up old thoughts and fancies over my fire, till I become quite low-spirited. I don't know how it is, but there b a picture in my desk of my little niece, Jane Townsend, who died quite young, when she was only fifteen — a child I had hoped would take care of me in my old age — which I do not often look at on other common days, but which always comes out on New Year's-eve. It is a very pretty picture, in a gipsy hat, with that beautiful long hair of hers. Well, I wonder what made me begin to write about it, it always makes me so melancholy.

      I am resolved, however, this year to show that I am growing older by growing wiser, — so now that Mr. Smith and his sister are fairly gone to chapel, as usual, and I have a few clear hours to myself, I will even sit down to do a little writing — a thing I am becoming quite fond of, especially since I have been told by Miss Kitty (how she came to hear it I do not know, but she has friends about the court) that the Queen (Heaven bless her! I saw her once) was quite taken with the tale of the old Music Book, and read it aloud to her ladies as they were sitting at work. Ah! I doubt it's all Miss Kitty's flattery! for she says she feels next door to an author herself, having one living in the house with her. "A story above you — Miss Kitty, you should say," said I. Bless me! but I thought she would have choked herself with laughing! —

      I was reminded of the things I am going to tell, by perceiving, when I was enjoying my usual walk to day, that the family who took old Leicester's house last, are again removing. No one will stay there: it's so small and inconvenient, and full of draughts, and no proper well in it. And the front door opens right into the best sitting room: to be sure, as it is out of town, the thing is of less consequence. Old Leicester, at least, managed to live there many a long year, though we can't say much for the comfort of his establishment. I never could understand the ways of misers, and he was a complete specimen: — as thin as a whipping-post — and very tall — with a keen sharp red nose, that you might have cut things with — and two eyes almost as red, they were so fierce — and the top of his head as bald as the back of my hand, you could see at a glance that he had a vicious temper of his own; — and when he spoke, I never could tell, at a little distance, whether it was he or his dog Snap. As for his clothes, no one would have robbed him to dress a scarecrow; and, indeed, Mrs. Wigley, the vicar's wife, who was going down the close to prayers one morning, happening to see him in a cherry-tree, said to his wife, who was standing looking over the gate, "So, Mrs. Leicester, you have got a new cherry-bogle, I perceive!" Mrs. Wigley was a Scotchwoman — and very near sighted — but so much shocked at her mistake that she declared she need never have gone to prayers that morning — indeed, who would like to take a respectable man for a scarecrow? — but, as Miss Kitty said the shame was in his old sun­burnt coat, and his boots, which he owned to being twenty-five years old, and would say, "Ah! they make no such leather now-a-days!"

      If old Leicester was an oddity, his wife was a greater; and I never could satisfactorily account for their coming together, only, as the song says,

"Love will still be lord of all."

for she was a woman of a high proud family. Her own cousin was a peer of the realm; and once a quarter the postman used to leave at the door of that desolate place a letter, sealed with a coronet. It is true that Mrs. Leicester was no beauty — never could have been; for she was of shrunk growth, if not positively deformed: but then, as Miss Kitty used to say, "think of her origin! — she who had lived in great style, and had horses and servants, and lady's maids of her own, and had been brought up in a French convent, — to think of her demeaning herself to marry an old beggarly auctioneer!" for Leicester was nothing greater, and this was the way it came about. Miss Dacre (I don't say this was her real name) had always been full of strange fancies, ever since she was a child: among others, a most violent dread of being left an old maid. Now, as all the young ladies of her family, sisters, cousins, and so forth, were as remarkable for their beauty (who has not heard of the Dacre dimple? — I have seen a song upon it, too long to copy here), as she was short and ugly, and as all of them had more fortune than she had, it was too likely that they would be taken, and she left. The end of it was, that when she was approaching thirty, an age at which, I have seen it stated somewhere or other, more desperate things are done than at any other, she absolutely ran away with her father's, Sir Harding Dacre's, gentleman, and, before she could be fetched back, was married to him.

      Great was the stir which this made in the county, so I have heard; but what could be done? In France, I have been told, she might have been put in a prison for life, but here there is not so much as a month's hard labour to be inflicted on those who disgrace their families, and make fools of themselves. I don't know what to say about it, for I have no liking for French fashions, and perhaps, after all, people punish themselves enough. However, Sir Harding could not let his daughter starve, so he pensioned her off on condition she lived at the other end of the kingdom, and settled, I believe it was two hundred a year, upon her husband, if he continued to use her kindly. The poor man (his name was Wroxton) died before they had been married three years. I do believe he was more ashamed of what he had done than she was, for he was a young, well-looking fellow, I have been told; whereas she (some one or other said spitefully) looked fifty from the time she was born, and was, for all the world, like the Yellow Dwarf in the Fairy Tale. When I knew her she was really very ugly, and if I passed her hobbling along on the causeway — much more like a witch than a woman — it used to send me home quite contented with Miss Kitty's homely face; and, as I have said, she does not set up for a beauty.

      Well — when Mrs. Wroxton was left a widow, Sir Harding did not quite know what to do with her. However, after many pros and cons, it was determined she should be received at home again, in a sort of obscure way, I take it as they were a terribly proud family, and never, it may be supposed, could forget how she had demeaned herself. Lo, and behold! she very presently finished the business for herself. — One husband, it seems, was not enough; and when Mr. Leicester, then an auctioneer in Devizes, came over to take an inventory of the furniture in the cottage she had occupied, previously to its being sold, she paid her addresses to him — (I must take care that Miss Kitty does not see this till it is in print, as she will never admit that such things ever do happen); and the long and short of the matter was, that one fine morning, instead of receiving his daughter in her weeds, the old gentleman received quite a bold letter from Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Leicester, acquainting him with their marriage, and entreating his forgiveness and countenance, — it would have been most in character with Leicester to have said custom, — and enclosed a catalogue. Sir Harding — and no wonder — flew into an awful passion, was seized with a severe fit of the gout, and swore he would never see her again. What was more, he kept his oath.

      Still, after a short period, he again repented so far as to allow his ill-guided daughter an allowance sufficient to keep her out of the reach of want: this time, however, it was only one hundred pounds instead of two; and they came here, living being cheap, and took the small house I have mentioned, Leicester still carrying on his business in Devizes. The only touch of proper pride I ever heard of her showing was, her positively preventing him from doing anything in his line here; she could not face it out to be looked after as the auctioneer's wife, and used always to speak of Mr. Leicester's absences as grandly as if he had been away on pleasure journeys, though every one knew what it was that took him from home, and laughed at her finery. She was a strange light-headed woman to the last, though he led her a sad life: and after I heard how he used her, I never could see them together without thinking of Punch and Judy, for it was said he used to beat her violently; but she was as flighty as a child till she died, and the tales she told would fill a story-book: — how poles were set up in the fields about Dacresford, to show the leaps she had taken on horseback when following the hounds; and how three gentlemen had been killed in duels all on her account; and such stories of the convent where she had been brought up, showing, if true, that the people in France are worse than they would have us believe now-a-days. I never knew how much she invented, and how much was real, but she had such a genteel voice, and her language was so good, that there was no helping listening to her, old and ill-looking, and untidy as she was.

      The misery in which the Leicesters lived was extreme, but, somehow or other, that did not seem to fret her, as might have been expected. I suppose there is a time when people can sink to anything. The house, Miss Kitty declared, was fuller of rubbish than her own lumber-room; and I was really often sorry for them on cold nights, after I had seen them once, on a bitter January evening, cowering, like a couple of gipsies, over a fire which you might have carried away in one hand; with no light save a bit of rush-light in an old brass candlestick. Yet she wore handsome rings on her fingers; and round her neck a cross, which, I have often heard her tell, the King of France gave to her, so pleased was he with her dancing in a show got up in the convent for his amusement. I did not believe all she used to tell about the King of France.

      So they lived on, for twenty years or more, in our neighbourhood. No one respected them, and yet, excepting their very great stinginess, and their always quarrelling with each other, I don't know that anybody had much to lay to their charge. No one of Mrs. Leicester's proud relations ever came near her, and though she was always talking about them, do believe that she became so completely used to her own slovenly, comfortless ways, that to have lived as other people do, would only have annoyed her. It may be, therefore, judged how much amazed we were, when, about the end of that time, it was given out that a relation of hers was coming to stay with her, — a young and beautiful Miss Dacre, scarcely seventeen; and for once, it seemed as if she had been telling no fables, for a Miss Dacre did actually come, and, as it had been rumoured of her, was young and very beautiful.

      This was, of all the mysteries which had happened in our good town, from the time when the oldest man could remember (not forgetting the ghost in Ironmonger Row, which proved after all to be nothing more nor less than an old smoke-jack), the hardest to bear, because it lasted the longest. There we saw this Miss Dacre — Phœbe was her Christian name — at church every Sunday, dressed in the best, and going as peaceably home with those miserable old creatures, as if it had been all she was used to; and yet none of us could make out why she was there. Mrs. Leicester was never over fond of asking people within her doors — now, less than ever; and Miss Kitty was so vexed, that I really thought she would have cried, as she complained how grand Mrs. Leicester had grown on a sudden; she, who had formerly been always borrowing some trifle or other, and always coming in (for she found Miss Kitty a good listener to her tales of old times), had kept her standing at the gate half an hour in a bitter March wind, rather than ask her to sit down. "Well, to be sure," concluded she, "I don't envy Miss Dacre her visit: I have been up into their spare room, many a time, and the bed is dropping to tatters, and no two chairs alike, and only a wretched old looking-glass that showed your face awry when you looked in it!"

      "Perhaps she will not stay very long," said I, wishful to say something pleasing.

      "Nay, who knows! I am sure never any thing was known like it!" and out of the room she flounced, quite cross. Oh, the ladies! — they must be at the bottom of every thing.

      But Miss Kitty can worm out most secrets; no one knows how; so that I was not surprised by getting the history of this also. I could tell it by her contented face, as she came in and out, many days before she spoke. At last, when she had plumed herself long enough on her superior knowledge, out it all came, though she knows I am not curious.

      "It's all this love, Mr. Townsend," said she, lingering one evening to dust the shepherds and shepherdesses on my chimneypiece — "let you and me be thankful that we keep clear of it! This Miss Dacre, I am very sorry for her, poor dear! — with such a father and such a mother — let alone such an aunt to stay with — but from what I can gather, it's wonderful how she puts up with old Leicester's miserable ways: they won't break her spirit easily, I have a notion."

      "How break her spirit, Miss Kitty?"

      "They want her to give him up, sir — the young man she is attached to — a gentlemen's son he is, too — and very handsome, Mrs. Leicester tells me, but with never a penny in the world. That won't suit Sir George Dacre, who spends too fast — to say nothing of his wife — to have much to spare for his daughter. And, in fact, they were at their wit's ends what to do with her. Dacresford is not quite a house for a young lady to stay in. These great folks can never have heard of the Commandments, Mr. Townsend, one would think — and they had nothing better to contrive than to send her down here, quite out of the way. The fools! — and he was after her before she had been here a week: no wonder she looks so happy and rosy — quite content with every thing."

      "He" —.

      "Her lover, Mr. Townsend, Grafton is his name. I thought I noticed a strange gentleman lurking about at night-fall for the last three weeks; and I overtook him more than once, just past the toll-bar, turning up towards the Leicester's: so I put things together, and by little and little I came to guess how it was."

      "Ah! there is no hiding any thing from you, Miss Kitty," — (she likes to be told she is shrewd) — "but is this only from guess-work, what you have been telling me?"

      She threw down the oldest of all my crockery in her haste to clear herself, and explain how she had pressed hard questions upon Mrs. Leicester, and how she had got the whole truth from her — and how there could not be a worse person to intrust a young lady to, if there was any clandestical (it's her word, not mine) correspondence to be stopped; "but, I think," concluded she," they are all possessed, and are quite easy, fancying he is in London, and does not know which way Miss Dacre has gone. I declare I expect an elopement will be the next thing; I saw Mrs. Leicester's riding habit laid out on the hedge the other day: 'tis many a year since the fresh air has come near it; and if that don't look like a journey, I don't know what does."

      But I was so much disturbed at the breaking of my china, that I did not get half the good out of Miss Kitty's story I should have done, and I forgot to ask where Mr. Grafton was lodging, and a variety of other particulars; and, I do suppose, looked quite sulky, for she went out of the room very humble, and I did not hear her singing in the house all the next day. On the day after that she set up a fine Jemmy Jessamy, in a chocolate coat and blue spangled breeches, in the place of what she had broken. I took the will for the deed: but it was nothing to compare to my shepherdess.

      Well, it chanced, that I was soon after this obliged to take a journey as far as Birmingham. I dare say that now I have begun to write, I shall some day or other put down all that I saw and heard on my travels; I was so taken up with my own business, that I forgot all about Miss Dacre, and her lover, and the Leicesters. What has an old single man like me to do with the love-making of a parcel of children? I found Birmingham so pleasant, and stayed so long, that poor Miss Kitty declared half in tears when I came back that she had believed she should never see me again. She might have known me better; a visit is a visit — and home is home, after all; and I could not, for a constancy, do with the late hours they keep at Birmingham.

      It took me two good days to settle in my old haunts before I could think of any thing, save where I had left this, and where to look for that. At last, however, I began to feel as if I had never been away — to creep about just as usual — and to have my gossip with Miss Kitty, who was as anxious to hear about fashions, and what they put upon their tables at Birmingham, as I was to learn what had happened in the long six weeks of my absence. The ladies first — so I told her all I could think of — and then began to ask my questions.

      "About the Leicesters, Sir, — bless me! such changes! What, did you really not hear? Man is mortal, Mr. Townsend — and they had both of them lived a good long time — not that they loved each other so well, to make one fancy that their ends would come so close together out of grief!"

      "Dear — dear — but you don't surely mean ⸻?"

      "Yes, Sir, but I do. She departed this life six weeks last Monday; they had both caught violent colds, owing, I am sure, to the wretched fires they kept, and to his having got wet in mowing that slip of a lawn. I wonder what they did with the grass, having no cow! Well, as soon as she was laid up, I was there everlastingly till Smith began quite to grumble; and there was sweet Miss Dacre nursing both of them, as gentle and nice as if she had been their daughter: little thought I that it might be legacy-hunting all the time, for who could have ever fancied, to look at him, that Leicester had thirty thousand pence to leave behind him — let alone pounds!"

      "Why, I never heard any thing like this." "Nor any one else, Mr. Townsend: I wanted sadly all this while to get a glimpse of Mr. Grafton, but all in vain: perhaps Sir George Dacre might have heard, or something or other made him shy — for he never once came near the house while I was there, and I believed him not to be in the neighbourhood. Well, lo and behold! old Leicester took to bed the day after his wife: I was sorry for Miss Dacre, then, for she really worked like a slave to attend upon them, although I did my best to help her, and between us we hired a woman to do the rough work in the house, though we durst not tell them, or they would have gone wild at the thought of such a thing. 'Queer parents yours must be, Miss Dacre,' thought I to myself, to see her in her good silk gowns, cooking up little messes for those two old misers, and running like a hired waiter when they called and I do not, after all, imagine she was thinking of the money — for who could have fancied Old Leicester possessed of such a sum?"

      "Well, and is he dead, too?"

      "Surely, Mr. Townsend; and he only lived a few hours after his wife — and he said it was all for the best, as being both so thin they might be buried in one coffin, and save so much expense. Good Mr. Wigley who came to see them when they were too weak to hinder him, was quite distressed that this was all the Christianity he showed in his last moments; but what can you expect? I don't fancy that those sudden turns, when people can't help themselves, are good for much. But old Leicester lived long enough to do one good thing, Mr. Townsend: he made his will, and made Miss Dacre his heiress. The attorney who drew it up, lifted up his hands and eyes in amazement to find him possessed of so much money — and how he got it, save by scrape — scraping, the Lord alone knows. But this is nothing to what came out after they were both gone, and the house came to be searched: such bundles of bank-notes in odd places, and a worsted stocking full of guineas, stuffed into an old lantern, which they were as near as may be throwing on the dust heap; and I cannot tell what besides — only hoards of money, and Miss Dacre is to have every sixpence of it paid down upon her wedding-day. I wonder what Sir George will say — for there's little doubt, as you may suppose, which way matters will go now — to see her pleasing herself before his very eyes — in spite of his teeth and how his false pride will put up with the idea of her being pointed at as the "Auctioneer's Heiress." But I dare say that she and Mr. Grafton can bear it; and that, after all, is the thing of most consequence. I am glad, too, that she is going to be well married, poor thing; and they say he is a steady young man — for her mother's name has been sadly in the newspapers lately — and, it is said, that Sir George is going to sue for a divorce: no wonder, if all tales are true!"

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THE PAWNBROKER'S LODGER. — No. 5.

      It is long since I have been so angry as I was this morning — and no wonder. Miss Kitty might well say, man is born to trouble! To have the Celerity upset — a thing that never happened before — upset, too, in a black dismal ditch: — and to make matters worse, the door of the hind-boot flying open, so that all the small parcels (my parcel for the Court Magazine among the rest) were lost in the mud — it was too bad! Such a droll story, too, as it was: — of an old man who advertised for a wife, and the advertisement was answered by one as eager for matrimony, I take it, as he was, — only, unluckily, it turned out to be his own sister.

      "What am I to do, Miss Kitty?" said I, quite provoked. "What will all the ladies think, if they haven't one of my stories, as usual, this month? I don't mind for myself, but I don't want to disappoint them; and I write so slowly, I could never get another ready in time. — What am I to do?"

      She considered for a moment, then was off like a lapwing, and soon came back with a great roll of papers. "Father Dockwray's, Sir," said she; "you know he died here, poor young man! because he would fast in spite of his doctors; and he was always a scribbling. One day, when he was laid up in bed, never to rise from it again, poor fellow! — for he was as meek as a saint! I wanted a bit of paper to light his fire, and he pointed to that very chest of drawers, Mr. Townsend — (it has had new handles, since, though) — and told me I might take all that I found there: — but when I saw how neatly they were written, I did not light fires with them, be sure, and have kept them by me ever since. Perhaps some of them will do; though, to be sure, they can't be as funny as your own." How sly of Miss Kitty, never to have mentioned them before!

      I looked into the roll, and have picked out one — the shortest — to send instead of my poor lost story. I cannot say I have read it — the hand is so crabbed. Miss Kitty says he used to shake like a paralytic person all the time he was writing. It may be something very Popish, and indiscreet for aught I know; but I could not disappoint the editor — and the ladies, I hope, after this little preface, won't mistake it for mine.

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖁𝖎𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝕱𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖅𝖊𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖆𝖘.

      IT chanced, on a red March evening, in the year of our Lord 1506, that two monks were standing together in the burial ground belonging to the Dominican monastery at Berne, of whom the one was the Father Zecharias, and the other Francis Vetschi, the sub-prior of the aforesaid convent; of whose strange and unblessed doings, it may be, that some have heard.

      "And yet," said the Father Zecharias, in continuation of their discourse, "I profess that I am troubled at heart about the estate of those poor souls in Purgatory."

      "Trouble not thyself, Brother Zecharias; are they not in a better estate than the one in which thou wast awhile ago — living amid the sins and allurements of this world? If they be punished there, it is only for a time, and they will presently be released."

      "But how know we that this punishment is but for a time? — and where lieth the region of purgatory in which they abide?" asked Zecharias.

      "It is well, Brother, that I am tender with thee, else I should denounce thee to our superior as a holder of heretical and unwholesome doubts. Till now — and I have been many years in this house, was I never before inquired of, where the doleful land of Purgatory lieth, though it may be ⸻"

      "It may be," cried Zecharias, eagerly, "that you know — is that not what you would say?"

      "And if I did, what would it profit thee?"

      "Ah! little, unless I could go thither and see for myself," sighed the new-made monk, "whether some dear friends of mine be there, and whether they be grievously or lightly punished. Dear Father, you have a mighty renown in this place for subtlety and learning: know you not of any means whereby my desire might peradventure be accomplished?" And Zecharias fell eagerly upon his knee, and looked up imploringly in the face of the other.

      "This inquiring spirit of thine, my son," replied the sub-prior, with a half-smile, "will lead thee into trouble one of these days."

      "And yet, Father, you must yourself likewise have inquired eagerly to have gotten so much wisdom."

      "In that thou art right, my son, and I am tempted to instruct thee because I perceive that thou art modest as well as fervent, and dost honour to the learned. But this matter is one of grave handling. Come therefore to my cell an hour after midnight; we will speak of these things more fully, and it may prove to thy satisfaction." On this they parted.

      Now, you must know, that many pious men hold that this sub-prior, this Francis Vetschi, who performed so notable a part in these and after proceedings in the same religious house, was none other than an evil spirit, permitted, because of their unbelief and cunning, to tempt the fathers to their ruin. But of course the earnest Father Zecharias knew not this. He reverenced this man above all the others because he was deeply learned, and willing to discourse with him on all manner of awful and momentous things — such as the blessedness of heaven, the sufferings of the damned, the nature of angels, and the like; and the young monk, who had exchanged a life of licence and adventure for the cowl and the rosary, found nothing so effectual to efface a few longings for the pleasures of the world as the contemplation of these and other such mysteries.

      The night was utterly silent and dark. The clouds hung so low that you could almost feel their oppression. Father Zecharias sat alone in his cell, impatiently expecting the summons of the clock, and remembering former times, when he had lingered in his sumptuous chamber watching the fingers of the time-piece till they should point the hour which was to lead him to the Lady Angelina's feet. Ah! it was for the peace of her soul that he had so often scourged himself before the high altar at midnight; it was for her alone that he sought to penetrate into the place of sojourn of the souls of the dead. It was from grief for her loss that he had quitted the world in disgust, and taken shelter in the cloister. It was to her he prayed when he knelt at night and morning. It was with the echo of her rich Southern voice that the choir seemed to speak to him in its music. Now, when the clock struck one, he extinguished his lamp, and stole out to the appointed place. As he passed the corner of the cloister, the sound of the organ and the voices of a few choristers, assembled at that dead hour to sing a requiem for some departed brother, faintly reached his ear, seeming as it were to warn him back from pursuing the adventure. But his burning curiosity was not to be stifled, and with the sigh of a thirsty miser when he sees afar off a rich treasure, he passed on and was soon in the sub-prior's cell.

      That subtle and wicked man (or fiend) was bending over an old grim-looking roll of parchment, and reading so intently by the weak flare of his lamp, that he did not look up when the young monk stood beside him; and, as he read, his lips moved without ceasing, pressing out from between them strange heathenish sounding words, the like to which Zecharias had never heard before. Still the "Miserere" of the choir made its way to his ear; he closed the door sharply to shut it out. Then the sub-prior, closing his book, motioned Zecharias to come and sit beside him.

      "Art thou here, Brother Zecharias," said he, "in purpose of heart to fulfil thy daring inquiries?"

      "I am, sir," replied the young man, his heart leaping within him as he spoke.

      "I have been consulting many curious books for thy satisfaction," returned the sub-prior, "and I have discovered — but, first, art thou trustworthy?"

      "I am of the best blood in Florence, as you know," was Father Zecharias' eager answer.

      "Thou shalt swear," replied the sub-prior, with a sneer.

      "And wherefore? Is there guilt in what I am about to partake of?"

      "I have done," replied the other, carelessly. "I only grieve for the trouble I have taken in rummaging over my musty shelves, since, when the fullest gratification awaits thy desires" — he looked him keenly in the face as he spoke — "thou hangest back in such a strange and lukewarm fashion. I have done. Benedicite, Brother Zecharias, and good night."

      "Nay, but —"

      "Nay, but I will have my cell to myself," rejoined the sub-prior, angrily. It required much submission and entreaty to bring him again into a complaisant mood. Father Zecharias declared that he would gladly take whatever oath was required.

      This prescribed oath, such as by no means would befit a Christian page, was taken, not without a shudder. "To the work at once," said the sub-prior, now as alert as he had a while before been languid and constrained. "Follow me," and, as he spoke, he pushed aside a part of an old dark press, and disclosing the door of an inner chamber, bade Zecharias enter.

      This cell, the existence whereof was a secret to the common brethren, was a small square room, lined — roof, walls, and floor — with soft dark cloth, like the torture chamber of some dungeon. It was lighted from the roof, from which hung a lamp burning with a feeble, reddish flame. A strange picture occupied the entire of one side; the subject was some demon orgy. A vast multitude of naked and ferocious figures were dancing or wrestling, or it might be fighting, in the full blaze of a lurid light, so intense that it gave a gave a clearness and transparency to their forms. Their countenances were grotesque and hideous, their limbs strong and distorted. And in the midst of this infernal rout was laid upon an altar their victim, bound hand and foot: — a girl of great youth and beauty, robed entirely in a long white garment; her attitude like theirs who sleep the sleep of death. Above, in the midst of the deep red gloom which roofed this wild and wicked scene, was the shadow of a gigantic head, so drawn out, that no feature or expression was to be discerned; and underneath, a large tablet inscribed with barbarous looking characters. Zecharias was so busy gazing on this strange picture, that he did not notice the many implements of magic, which were the only other furniture of the chamber.

      Meanwhile, the sub-prior was busying himself over a certain altar or table that stood underneath the lamp, on which was placed a bowl of dark porphyry full of some unknown liquid, whence first began to arise a sulphurous vapour, and then a small white flame. Vetschi bent over this reverentially, and once or twice bowed himself before it, as before the real Corpus Christi, all the while muttering rapidly some formula, which grew stronger as the flame waxed brighter.

      "Come hither, Brother Zecharias," cried he, suddenly pausing.

      The youth obeyed, and stood beside him.

      "I must have a drop of blood from your arm." Zecharias had no power to resist, and the sub-prior nimbly slipped back his sleeve, and wounding a vein slightly with a dagger, which hitherto had laid across the bowl, pressed thence a few drops into the flame. Immediately a dull heavy sound of feet was heard, as it were straight beneath them, and so mighty that the chamber rocked therewith. When Father Zecharias turned away from the cauldron, which was now flaming fiercely upwards, there was a third person with them in the chamber.

      This last comer appeared a short and strong man, clad in a curious garment of brown felt, with a bonnet on his head of the same, a belt of black leather round his waist, and thick club of knotted wood under his arm. His face was half covered with glistening black hair, and was otherwise of a deep brown hue. His mouth was closed and still; his eyes were round, of the colour of jet, and gleamed exceedingly; and he seemed more like unto the statue of an idol than a creature endowed with will and motion.

      "It is my servant," said the sub-prior; "thou wilt go with him, brother Zecharias, and he will show thee all that is in thy heart."

      The young monk trembled, but it was now too late.

      "See," continued Vetschi, "that thou neither speak, nor stir from the place he shall point out to thee, and he shall conduct thee again to this spot in safety. If thou disobey mine orders, on thine own head lie the awful peril of thy folly!" He then spake some words in the same unknown tongue as before to the figure, who answered only by bowing his head. "Follow him, brother Zecharias, and peace be with thee." These last words were spoken in a tone of bitter mockery.

      But of this Zecharias took no heed, for the dark minister of the sub-prior grasped his wrist sharply, and pointed to the trap-door whereby the young monk thought he had entered the chamber, and from which were seen descending steps lost in the lower darkness. Zecharias, as passive as a child, could not choose but accompany him, and they went swiftly, steadily downward, deeper and yet deeper (the demon still speaking no word), till the youth began to wonder where they should stop; and but for the burning grasp which guided him through the thick and noisome darkness, would have thought his present adventure none other than a dream.

      At length the floor became level, and the passage wider, as it seemed, and loftier, as a sound of going and of whispering was heard high in the space overhead, and fierce blasts of wind seemed to rush past them at every moment, and tongues of fire to glance upon them and then pass by. They marched forward, the familiar still holding Father Zecharias with firm grasp, until they came, as it were, to the door of an immense vault, so high that the eye could not discern the roof, and so wide that the lights upon the walls appeared no larger than stars, albeit near at hand they were each of them as large as the massy flame of a furnace. The floor was a pavement of tombstones of every date and century, and inscribed with the writing of every people under the sun. There were none else in this spacious chamber but themselves, nor any sound to be heard save a low and melancholy wail of lamentation, which arose from the pavement wherever they came, and when they had passed died away again in dreary silence. The demon led Zecharias hither and thither, ever and anon pointing to the stones upon which they trod, and the monk as often shook his head mournfully. They passed into a second chamber, no smaller than the first, but there likewise was no record of what he sought so eagerly; into a third, and the fitful sound of mourning still marshalled them. At last, and Zecharias thought its melancholy tone grew sadder and stronger the while, they came to a freshly carved tablet of oval shape, and on it was written:

ANGELINA,
ONLY DAUGHTER OF COUNT MARLI,
AGED TWENTY YEARS.

Here Zecharias would have cried out aloud, when his stern guide grasped his wrist more violently than before, and laid the forefinger of his own other hand upon his lips; and nodded, as if to say, "Sought you not this?" Zecharias looked pitifully in his face, and made no other answer.

      Then the demon motioned to Zecharias that he should stand aside from the stone, and he stooped and raised it; and behold! underneath it was a key: — and the demon took up the key, and led Zecharias forth out of the chamber.

      They were soon again, as before, in a close passage, but not, as before, in darkness, for a pale, sickly, gleaming light showed them countless doors, as of prison cells, on this side and on the other; — and Zecharias' heart grew faint with fear to hearken to the cries of anguish and entreaty which came from within. On a sudden his guide plucked him by the garment, and they stood close against the wall. A loud footstep approached them, and the warder of these prisons strode past them through the twilight; so dim was it that Zecharias saw not how he was clad, or how great was his stature, but his step was like the thunder when it drops from cloud to cloud; and in one hand he bore a spear, and a heavy faulchion hung at his thigh. As he passed, the prisoners in the cells called upon his name, that he would let them come forth, and that their torments might be assuaged; but he went on his way, and stopped not. So also Zecharias and the demon passed on, until they came to a door engraven like the tomb from which they had taken the key.

      Now Zecharias' heart beat high, and his knees smote together, when the demon turned the key in the locks, of which there were six, — and he thought every moment a year till the fastenings were all undone, and he might go in and see his lady. Again the guide put his finger on his lips. The sixth lock gave way, and the two entered the place where the Lady Angelina lay.

      O, how small and dismal was it! — how different from the pleasant bower in her own palace at Florence! She lay, wrapt as in her grave clothes, upon a low pallet, on which she was bound with large chains. Her head reclined upon one white arm, her feet were bare. Who may tell the distress of her face? Her eyes were sunk and dead, and had run tears till their fount was dry. Her cheeks were white and hollow, and she ceased not to sigh sadly, "Alas! and why am I here?"

      On a sudden she perceived Zecharias standing motionless and distressed in the doorway of her dungeon of captivity. She cried out aloud — alas! that she could not break her chain and run to him — "Giovanni! O my Giovanni! do I see you indeed? Have you come to share my punishment, who were the cause of my sin?"

      The words cut him to the heart no less with remorse than grief, but his hand was held firmly by his swarthy guide, and he remembered his awful oath.

      "You will not then speak to me, Giovanni," cried the Lady Angelina, passionately; "is this the last and hardest trial? Or is it only an appearance — or indeed you yourself? O speak to me! You loved me once! you know you loved me!" But Zecharias was yet silent, and his companion began with impatience to pull him nearer the door.

      "Giovanni!" cried his lady once more, in a yet more piercing voice, "will you not deliver me? Will you not do thus much for your own poor Angelina? Weary nights and days have passed since I have lain here, and have suffered — It is coming now! Giovanni, for mercy's sake deliver me!"

      While she yet spoke, a hissing sound was heard in a far corner of her prison, and, behold! a large serpent began to uncoil itself and crest out its dark head towards the place where the maiden lay, and soon it was close beside her. The familiar gave Father Zecharias another peremptory summons — he was rooted to the spot. The serpent ere long raised itself upon its speckled rings, and creeping round behind her, still lifting its large slimy head, coil upon coil, presently towered high above her. Giovanni struggled convulsively to free himself from the demon, and even while he thought his gripe began to wax fainter, the serpent cast itself forward over her shoulder, and greedily threw itself upon her white bosom. The youth could bear no more. "In God's name, foul spirit," cried he, rushing violently forward, "let go thy hold!" As he spoke, a hideous laugh burst from his companion, who straightway departed; the foul serpent also, affrighted, drew itself away hastily, and the lady's head was once more lying upon her lover's breast. But ere he could take one kiss of those lips, whose sweetness he had loved better than his salvation, or speak one cheerful word in her ear, a mighty peal of thunder broke over their heads, and there came a strong blast of wind, and with it flames of fire; and the maiden was caught suddenly out of his arms, and he saw her no more. When the rushing of the whirlwind, and the sound of the thunder and of those fierce eager flames had ceased, and the Father Zecharias could look abroad, behold! he was laid upon the floor of his own cell.

*       *       *      *

      Now came eventide, and the sun shone pleasantly upon the monastery of Berne and into the cell of Father Zecharias, who was laid upon his bed sick to death. All that day he had lain like one in a trance, but, towards the hour when the dew falls, he revived a little and sate up, and spoke as he had been wont to speak. And he called for the prior, and confessed himself to the same, and prayed that the brethren would carry him forth and lay him upon the steps of the high altar, that he might die there if it was the Lord's will that he should die. And they lifted him up, and bare him into the chapel upon his bed, and laid him down before the great altar. And hour by hour he grew still fainter, and they prayed over him and sang hymns; and the physician poured the strongest cordials down his throat as if they had been water. It availed not — he was dying fast, and he spoke to no one nor would answer questions, but lay looking upward with an anguished look, and beating his breast; only when the sub-prior stood beside him he lifted up his head, and cried exceedingly loud, "Away, thou false Satan!"

      "Ye see, my brethren," said that cunning man, "how hardly our brother is wrestling with his adversary." And from this time they prayed yet more fervently.

      Towards midnight, when some were beginning to fail because of sleep, great fear fell upon them, and they gathered themselves closely together a stone's throw from where he lay, to see what might befal him. And when the hour struck, a shadow like a deep black cloud seemed to darken the flame of the tapers, and to rest heavily upon the dying man; and a voice came from the cloud, saying: "HE IS MINE!" And when the cloud had passed away, they found that Father Zecharias was dead^*.

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      ^* It will be remembered that the Dominican Monastery at Berne was the scene of some of the most strange and appalling proceedings which ever disgraced the pages of Church history, and in which the sub-prior, alluded to in the legend, was a prominent actor.