SOME forty years since, or thereabout, as chroniclers are wont to say, the University of Cambridge was visited by a plague, that kept its members in a continual state of alarm and anxiety. It was neither famine nor drought. It was neither fire nor pestilence — it was neither wizard nor witch, nor demon of darkness — that, night after night, dispelled the slumbers, and disturbed the peace of the weary watchers — it was none of these, nor any thing half so romantic. It was simply a thief, whose magic consisted in a truly wonderful facility of picking locks. To him the best Bramahs — had they then existed-would have been as straws; nor bolts nor bars cared he for: he went wherever he listed, in spite of all obstacles. Fortunatus's cap was not more propitious to its wearer than the keys of this accomplished thief to him, and though Bow-street runners were had down from town, and every precaution to prevent robbery was put into force, it was all in vain. The thief won the day upon every occasion, and laughed in his sleeve at Alma Mater and her children.

      I need not say that this state of things created great consternation through the town. Forty or fifty years ago, people were not so enlightened as they are now; and they must, therefore, be forgiven, if a secret suspicion, hardly confessed even to themselves, of some black art having been practised, did at times occur to them. As to the servants of the colleges, mostly natives of the county, and brought up in as firm a faith in witchcraft as in their bible, it is not to be wondered at, if their matinal descriptions of the visions of the night were rather terrific; and however absurd the story, it was sure to obtain a favourable hearing, and implicit credence from the knots of idlers who are always to be seen in a town hanging about the gateways and corners of streets.

      At length, and by the merest accident, all those supernatural fears, which, in spite of their terrors, people rather take delight in, were laid at rest by the discovery of the real thief; who, as I have before observed, turned out to be neither demon, nor imp, nor even a magpie, but a common mortal like themselves. That he was a clever one, the fact of his having robbed every college in the University of a quantity of plate, and some of them under circumstances of great difficulty, leaves not a doubt.

      In St. Andrew's-street, at the time I speak of, lived Alderman B——, a gentleman of wealth and consideration in the town, and a lawyer to boot. His house was one of those fine old buildings, the like of which one sees still in some obscure court or alley in the heart of our great city, reminding one of a gem of the ocean, or desert flower, that one sighs to see so lost. Though dingy looking, it was rich in architecture, and albeit in the midst of a town, possessed all the comforts of a country place, his establishment was suitable to a man of fortune. And like other men of fortune, he was known to have a magnificent service of plate.

      One night the alderman gave a party of unusual splendour, and the whole of his plate was in use on the occasion. The next morning, his butler came to him, with a face pale with affright, to announce that every atom had disappeared to a spoon! Expecting the whole weight of his master's vengeance to fall upon him, and that nothing less than instant dismissal would follow, it may easily be conceived how astonished, as well as relieved, he was to hear the alderman, in a soothing tone of voice, desire him to take no notice whatever of the robbery, and not to let a single individual out of the house know that such a thing had occurred. The alderman was obeyed to the letter, and the gossips of Cambridge lost the rich treat of canvassing this most audacious affair.

      In the meantime the midnight thief continued his depredations; not a chapel or a buttery in the numerous colleges escaped his visits. The quantity of plate stolen was incredible, and the manner of its abduction was still as great a mystery as ever. But the alderman, though he did not bemoan his loss, or express his sorrow to the gaping crowd, was not idle; with true lawyer-like sagacity he was silently watching for a clue, which from the first he was convinced he should find. Nor had he long to wait.

      He had observed every day after the robbery, a little sweep stationed near his house, evidently for the purpose of observing his movements. Whenever he appeared, there was the boy lurking in some corner, or behind a door way; and wherever he went, he was sure to perceive his dingy familiar in his wake. "Oh! oh!" thought the alderman, "Have I got it at last? this boy evidently has a motive for following me, and that motive, whatever it be, I shall discover by the most summary magisterial process." Securing accordingly the attendance of a constable on his next appearance outside his door, he accosted the boy who was at his usual post. "Who do you belong to, boy?" "To Grimshaw, the sweep," replied the little urchin. "Where does he live?" "At Barnwell." "Take me to his house, then, instantly."

      Away went the alderman and constable, conducted by the spy, who dared not refuse, to a miserable hut in the environs of Barnwell. The sweep was at home; his evident terror at the sight of the boy's companions proclaimed his guilt without the intervention of judge or jury; the constable, armed with his warrant, commenced an immediate search, and under the stairs of the hovel discovered the whole of the missing plate. The alderman, it may be imagined, was highly gratified at the success of the enterprise, and blessed his own skilful management that had produced it; but of course, as a good citizen, he took care to secure Grimshaw, who, in due course of time, received the well-merited reward of his crime, having been formally tried, condemned, and hanged; and so great and universal was the delight of the Cambridge folks at his capture, that Alderman B——, who had been a very great man before, now came to be regarded as a perfect hero. People never seemed weary of hearing the story related in all its lights and shades, and I don't know how many pressing invitations were declined by the alderman, from an absolute dread of being called upon to repeat the oft-told tale. In fact, the event made a marvellously choice piece of gossip, and far transcended in local interest and importance the common nine days' wonders of the world.

      But Grimshaw, though a thief, and the purloiner of Alderman B——'s plate, was after all only a tool, an instrument in the hands of another, whose apprehension followed immediately afterwards, in consequence of some disclosures that were made on Grimshaw's trial. The real delinquent was a shepherd, one who had passed his youth and manhood in the fields, but possessing a mechanical genius that was perfectly wonderful, had come to Cambridge, and turned it to no better account than plunder. He it was who planned, and enabled his coadjutors to perpetrate the numerous robberies that had spread such dismay throughout the University, and baffled the well-tried tact of the Bow-street runners.

      Connected with these two, was a Jew, the convenient go-between so necessary to thieves, who conveyed the stolen plate at once from the scene of its abstraction to the crucible — hence the means by which they were so long enabled to elude discovery. He also was apprehended, and on the trial of Grimshaw was allowed to turn approver. It was established by this man beyond a doubt, that Grimshaw was the sole planner and executor of this last robbery; that he had had nothing to do with it, or the plate would never have been found; and that the shepherd, though the prime mover of all the other robberies, was innocent of that committed on the alderman; that on the contrary, he had earnestly recommended Grimshaw to abandon the intention, declaring that if he robbed the alderman, he would be putting a halter round his own neck. But the cupidity of his companion was too strongly tempted, and the truth of this friendly prophecy Grimshaw learned when too late.

      Amongst other curious facts that came out on the trial was the following. At King's College chapel there was a pair of silver candlesticks of great magnificence, and so massive, as to require the strength of two men to lift them. These had long been the peculiar objects of their regard; the Jew in particular was constantly expressing his admiration of his favourites as he called them, and his anxiety to see them removed from a spot, where, to his thinking, they were so utterly useless. But how accomplish this wish of their hearts? The locks were peculiarly constructed, and defied even the shepherd's ingenuity to pick; but he was not a man to be baffled by trifles, or to lose a rich prize because a few difficulties stood in the way. Every morning and afternoon, when the cathedral service was performed in this chapel, the shepherd was seized with a fit of devotion, which lasted till he had possessed himself of a model of the keys. Facsimiles were soon made, all difficulties conquered, and at the solemn hour of midnight these unholy men stood at the altar of their God to desecrate it. But oh! the terrors of conscience! Over the altar is a magnificent picture of our Saviour descending from the cross — they are alone in that sacred pile — the city sleepeth — they have their hands upon those long coveted treasures, yet they dare not take them, for the eye of God is upon them! — they fancy he frowns on their dark deed — that he is advancing to them, and with a shriek of terror they rush to their confederate the Jew, who has been awaiting their return with fears of another kind. His greeting recalls them in some measure to their scattered senses. "So help me G— Almightish! my loves, vhy didn't you bring my favourites?" The two tremblers, still labouring under the influence of fear, declare they dare not touch them, for the Lord shook his head as they approached. The Jew tries to laugh them out of their fears, but in vain; they tell him if he wants his favourites, he must fetch them himself. "So help my G— I vill then, my loves," and he advances a few paces, but unbeliever as he is, even his courage is not equal to the exploit of going alone — he returns dismayed to his companions, the favourites are given up, and they remain to this day I believe the chief ornaments of the altar.

      The result of the trial was, that Grimshaw was hanged, and the shepherd transported, and all Cambridge rejoiced thereat, for now did peace with gentle wing fan the slumbers of its inhabitants.

PART II.

      It might be about eight or ten years after the shepherd's departure, when his existence, and the events connected with it, had passed from the memory of the townspeople, that a weather-beaten traveller, carrying a knapsack, entered the parlour of the Bell. Mine host, whose dignity was rather ruffled on seeing such a liberty taken with his best room, hitherto held sacred for the élite of his customers, soon followed to obtain a more minute survey, and ascertain whether the pocket of the intruder sanctioned such presumption, in which case certainly, as he observed to his spruce helpmate, the knapsack might be excused. The introductory hem of the landlord caused the traveller to turn round; the landlord started! for surely he had seen that face before. Yes! he was certain. Yet, no! it was ridiculous, it could not be. No! no! he was safe enough beyond seas, it was merely one of those striking resemblances so often found even between the greatest strangers. The traveller spoke. However the features or complexion may alter by time and travel, the voice remains unchanged, at least until that stage when the big, manly voice shrinks into the shrill treble. Now the stranger was a middle-aged man, yet his voice rang on the ear of the landlord, like an old, familiar sound, and he arrived at the conclusion in much less time than it has taken me to write it, that it was his old acquaintance the shepherd, and no one else, who sat before him.

      And so it was. There sat the shepherd, indeed, looking in no wise sheepish, or as a returned convict might be supposed to look. He shook hands heartily with his host, inquired after old friends, and, expressing the great satisfaction he felt on returning to his native place, made the landlord echo the sentiment in a bumper.

      He of the Bell all the time sat on thorns. He could not for the life of him participate in the joy of the shepherd; he felt assured his townsmen would not — but he appeared to have money, and what will not money do? So he treated his customer with very great respect, but escaped from him the moment he could civilly do so, to inform all the town that the plague was amongst them again. Yet there was no longer any cause for fear. The shepherd had returned a reformed character, and with a free pardon granted him by the Governor, Colonel Davies, of whom an amusing anecdote is told.

      The colonel, an old field officer, at that time commanding the Cambridge district, bethought himself of applying to Lord Liverpool for the governorship of Van Dieman's land, having been on service in that country when it first became colonised. The premier professed his willingness to serve the colonel in any way he possibly could, but delicately hinted that he thought him rather too old for that sort of thing. "Oh!" said the colonel, who was an eccentric man, "you think me too old, my lord, do you? I'll soon show you if I am old, whether I am active or not;" and retreating a few paces, without another word of warning, or using the slightest ceremony, he vaulted over the official table, which he cleared in true sporting style, without disarranging a single paper. This was such a convincing proof, that Time, if he had bestowed a few wrinkles on the colonel, had at least not robbed him of his youthful activity, that the premier, as soon as he could recover from the amazement this singular feat had produced, made the colonel happy by granting his boon, and a fortunate thing it proved for the shepherd.

      From the moment of the colonel's arrival in Van Dieman's Land it became the unceasing aim of our hero to find favour in his eyes, and so much did his good conduct, coupled with the fact of his having come from Cambridge, work upon the colonel, that in the course of a very few years he exercised his prerogative by granting him a free pardon; and he returned, as has been stated, to his native place, to lead a perfectly new life.

      His first step was to buy a house, and begin to turn to good account that mechanical genius which had before made him the terror of the place. He became a maker of wooden clocks, with which, like Sam Slick, he travelled the country, and if not blessed with so large a share of soft sawder as his prototype, his own story embellished with the wonders of a new world, cleverly worked up by the shepherd, who in those days had no fear of meeting any one to contradict his tales, generally took a clock off his hands wherever he went.

      But how could a returned convict buy a house? may be asked. To be sure, he might have worked hard whilst abroad and saved money, or Colonel Davies, in giving him his pardon, might have generously given him the means of living honestly in his own country. These are natural conjectures, but they are not the true ones, and now comes the pith of my story. It was in a field near Grandchester that the shepherd found the means of becoming a respectable man. When Grimshaw was apprehended, the shepherd had a large sum of money in his possession, the fruits of his many robberies; this he immediately buried in a field, and was wise enough never to divulge the fact to a mortal; and at the end of his eight or ten years' transportation, he found that money for which he had perilled body and soul, safe where he had placed it. No one could deny that it was his own, and that he had a right to it, and so uniformly correct and steady was his conduct, that I really do not think any one ever envied or grudged him its possession. After all, it must be confessed, the Cambridge Shepherd was one of Fortune's favourites.

      This very curious narrative, now made public for the first time, is, we are assured, undoubtedly authentic.

      [There are one or two trifling inaccuracies in the above, which any one acquainted with the circumstances will easily detect, but which we have not thought it worth while to alter.]