attempted was a failure. My hopes of escape were narrowing and vanishing. I saw that it behoved me to betake myself to what means of refuge I possessed. The case was desperate; the gentleman ready to explode with impatience, and seeking but a reasonable excuse for taking the matter into his own hands, and personally vindicating the insulted delicacy of his wife, by rushing across the street and invading the premises of the adversary. A desperate-a truly desperate remedy occurred to me in this dilemma. I had no time to deliberate; it was neck-or-nothing with me: so, summoning all my assurance to my aid, I boldly exclaimed, 'I bet you a guinea I know the man.' 'The devil you do!' replied Beecher, eyeing me with a very dubious expression. 'Yes,' answered I, still keeping up an appearance of nonchalance while I despatched my forlorn hope- that is, if the house opposite be number twenty-one, street.' 'Well, so it is,' rejoined Beecher. Didn't you know all that before?' 'Pooh! how could I, and I only a few hours in Dublin?' was my answer. 'It must be the same man,' I boldly continued; 'it's a most curious coincidence. I happen to know of a person lodging in that very house answering the description you have given in every particular. We had him in Athlone for some months, where I chanced to meet him, and to learn that this was his Dublin address.' 'Will you favour me with that gentleman's name, if you please,' said Beecher, very coolly, taking an inkstand from the mantelpiece, and otherwise preparing himself for a scribble. 'Certainly, if you wish,' I replied; but it is much more material for you to know what will obviate the possibility of everything you have in contemplation. A circumstance like this requires that truth should be told even where delicacy and feeling would wish to conceal the fact. It pains me very much to have to acquaint you that the wretched man is mad; is subject, of course, to some lucid intervals; but, from what you have told me, it is evident he is now in one of his most outrageous fits; common charity requires that the proprietor should be acquainted with the matter, in order that the poor creature may be removed as quietly and secretly as possible to some place of security, an office which I shall take on myself before I go to bed to-night. 'No go, Hugh,' was the cool rejoinder; 'it's very creditable to you, and all that, to preserve me from the casualties of a duel; and I dare say (though you say nothing about it), you are not wholly disinterested in the welfare of your friend opposite either, since he turns out your friend; but I tell you what, if he was as mad as the man that married his grandmother, he shan't escape me.' to be Tut-tut, man!' said I, deprecatingly, 'would you ask a mad. man to fight a duel?' Why, exclaimed Beecher, my own private opinion is, that the deuce a man ever fought a duel but a madman. However, I don't want to go to that length with him; in consideration of his infirmity I'll be satisfied if I find he's really out of his senses; for which purpose you and I, Hugh, will step across the street now, while Emily is getting tea ready, and will hear what he has to say for himself;' and he rose to depart. Another chance remained, my last, and I tried it. With a grave and solemn expression I asked, 'And how would you act, Beecher, in case you were not satisfied on that point, when I tell you, in addition, that the unfortunate being whom you wrongly designate as my friend, is neither more nor less than a common bagman?' A common bagman!' slowly repeated the infuriated husband. 'A bagman dare to treat my wife in that manner! Then, by Mercury, god of trade, I'll supply him with as choice a bag full of sorebones as ever Phil Crampton operated on.' To my inexpressible horror he made a burst towards the door to set about putting his truculent threat in execution. This was a contingency for which I had not at all calculated. I scarce knew what to do, but at all risks he should be prevented. I sprang in his way, to prevent his egress, using every entreaty that self-preservation could suggest; but he refused to listen to anything. A slight scuffle and some loud words ensued; for, between wine and excitement, he was one part drunk and three parts unmanageable. The noise we made became louder, and was responded to at last by an outcry in the hall outside, which gathered finally to the door leading into the apartment. The uproar increased, and the frenzies of my fear kept pace with it. Mrs. Beecher's voice rose amid the din, accompanied by another female squeak, which I attributed to the dreaded chambermaid. Violent but ineffectual efforts were made to open the door, which, it may be remembered, I had previously secured. The usual process failing, another was resorted to, and finally it was burst in, discovering to the view of the alarmed intruders the master of the house and his guest tugging at each other in good earnest-for, in the delirium of my terror, I believe I made rather a serious attack on my host, perhaps in instinctive anticipation of the scene I knew was preparing for me. We were torn asunder by the footman. Mrs. B. flung herself, fainting and screaming, into the arms of her husband, whose place, as my antagonist, the saucepan showed an inclination to assume. I had no time for ceremony; and, as the coast was clear, I contented myself with flooring the ambitious man of livery, and leaping across his prostrate body, plunged through the group, gained the hall, seized my hat, and bolted-would that I could say unrecog nized. The accents of a female voice rang in my ears as I departed. 'Och, you ugly Turk!' was its burden, wasn't it bad enough for you to go coort the misthress, without axin' to murther the masther after?' NATIONAL DEFICIENCIES. A GAUL, with shrug and most imperious frown, J. S. ONE HOUR WITH DEATH! SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS IN THE DULWICH GALLERY. THE Sun has gone in from this world of sin, 'Now whither dost speed on thy tall white steed! 'Mount, mount with me, and thou shalt see The terrible power, for a single hour, To ride with me-and LIVE!' 'By the thrilling tone, and the eye of stone, By the hard cold brow, I know thee now,- 'Oh! might I refuse-but I dare not choose- Thy gift is a doom, and, though not to the tomb, Away! away! through mire and clay The riders two are sped. Death first drew rein on a battle plain, 'Mid heaps of festering dead. He gazed all around, and no longer he frown'd, 'The fires of hell burn wondrous well, And on and on, o'er clod and stone, Towards a glimmering light through the darksome night, And a lovely sight did that glimmering light Show to the gazers there; In the twilight gloom of a lonely room Sat a lady pale and fair.* In heavy unrest on her gentle breast, Its young brow knit with pain, Lay the fever'd cheek of an infant weak, Too feeble to complain. The tear-drop was dry in the mother's eye, Her cold lips spoke no word; Her will she had given to the will of Heaven She was waiting on the Lord! * For the following eight stanzas, sce Room II. No. 143, Dulwich Gallery. Yet ever a glance she cast askance Through the doubtful gloom of that silent room, He has passed the door, he treads the floor, But a bright form was seen to rush between, 'Destroyer, flee! Oh, not to thee, And in thy brief hour of impotent power, When I may not bid thee fly; Not to them shalt thou bring or terror or sting, Nor to thee shall be victory! 'Back, wretch! O'erpowered, the grim shape cowered, And winced like a chidden boy, Then again on its course he urged his pale horse, At a lordly hall was his next stern call, Where, 'neath silken canopy, Afraid to pray, a rich man lay, Who knew that he must die; His failing ear, it could not hear But he knew whose steed had slacked its speed, His straining eye could naught descry Save the gloating stare of some eager heir, Or the glance of some menial cold. Oh! he would have given for one hope of Heaven, And one of Love's true tears, All his wealth, and his lands, and have toiled with his hands For bread through a thousand years. But he turned his face from the Spirit of Grace, He scoffed at the orphan's cry His God it was pelf, his love it was self, He must godless, loveless, die! That groan was his last.—But the hour is past, 'Hast thou had enough?' said that rider rough, 'What! at once away? pale trembler, stay, There's a parting word to tell, When next thou shalt ride with Death by thy side, Thou wilt not come off so well.' S. N. H. Merrie England in the olden Time: OR, PEREGRINATIONS WITH UNCLE TIM AND MR. BOSKY, OF LITTLE BRITAIN, DRYSALTER. BY GEORGE DANIEL. 'Dost thou think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and ale?' -SHAKSPEARE. CHAPTER VIII. 'METHINKS, Benjamin,' said Uncle Timothy to the laureat of Little Britain, as they sat tête-à-tête at breakfast on the morning after the adventure of the old harper, methinks I have conceded quite enough by consenting to play Esquire Bedel to the Fubsys, Muffs, and Bumgartens. A couple of lean barn-door fowls and a loin-or, as Mrs. Bumgarten classically spells it, a lion of fat country pork at Christmas, even were I a more farinaceous feeder than I am, are hardly equivalent to my approaching purgatory. You bargained, among other sights for Westminster Abbey. Now, what possible charm can the Poet's Corner have for the Fubsy family, who detest poets and poetry quite as much as ever did the second George "boedry and bainding! That was a terrible stumbling-block, but I yielded to your wishes. Then came the British Museum; and the two stuffed giraffes on the staircase, more than the arguments with which you crammed me, conquered my scruples. I will now take leave to have my own way. Your eloquence, persuasive though it be, shall never talk me into a blue coat and brass buttons. My mind, Benjamin Bosky, is made up.' 'A wise man changes his mind often, Uncle Timothy.' 'And a fool never! Well, let me be thought a fool rather than look like one. Did I not lose a dear friend, Benjamin, who was once to me there is nobody present to overhear-what you are kind enough to say I have been to you? Have I ever doffed my mourning suit-my black coat?' 'I don't think you have,' replied the laureat ironically. 'You are as well known by that same everlasting black coat as was old St. Dunstan's by its clock; both exhibiting very striking figures! Though I deny the black. "Tis hardly fresh enough to be called rusty. Depend upon it, Mrs. Bumgarten will-' 'I know it, Benjamin. That full-blown hollyhock of the aristo. cracy of Mammon, who has a happy knack of picking a hole in everybody's coat, will not spare mine. Let her then, for economy's sake, pick a hole in an old coat rather than in a new one. Besides, among her numerous antipathies is a dressed up old fool; which, properly translated, means one who is very unlike a Fubsy, and very like a gentleman.' Am I to conclude, Uncle Timothy, that you decline granting me this particular favour?' "In this "particular favour"-call it a pill, or rather, Benjamin Bosky, a bolus, you have ingeniously rolled up a dispensary of disagreeables.' |