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Bells and Pomegranates.--No. VIII, and Last : Luria, and a Sonl's
Tragedy. By Robert Browning, Author of Paracelsus" . . 573
. . .
“ Mount Sorel," &c. . . . . . .
Eventful Epoch, the, or the Fortunes of Archer Clive . . . 188
. . 93, 192, 285
Life of Carl Theodore Körner . . . . . . : 85
Lives of the Kings of England, from the Norman Conquest. By
: : 564
Reviews of New Books (continued) :-
. . . . . . . . . . 543
List of Ellustrations.
BY JOHN LEECH.
PLATE XIII. “ The door yielding to the instruments, opens with a
dull sudden sound?"
XV. " All right," cried Blast, from his sonorous chest, and
he stiffened the cords of his visage . . . . 292
XVI. “ Mr. Crossbone,” cried St. James, you are a man of the
world " . . . . . . . . . 393
THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. *
BY THE EDITOR.
CHAPTER XXII. JINGO was born for greatness. He had in his character the great element of a great general-a great statesman , marvellous selfpossession. Meaner boys would have been in a flutter of impatience; not 80. with the pupil of Tom Blast. Hence, he sat under the bed, with critical ear, listening to the hard breathing of the drunken man, who soon began to snore with such discordant vehemence that Jingo feared the sleeper might awaken his bottle friend, Mr. Folder. Jingo knew it not ; but his testimony would have been very valuable to Mrs. Tangle ; for the snoring of her husband was one of the disquietudes of that all-suffering woman ; the rather, too, that the man constantly denied his tendency to the habit. He never snored. Of course not; nobody ever does. Now Jingo might have been a valuable witness on the side of Mrs. Tangle, who could never succeed, talk as she would, in impressing her husband with a sense of his infirmity. On the contrary, her accusation was wont to be repelled as a gross slander ; an imputation unworthy of a wife and a woman. It is bad enough to endure an evil, but to have the nuisance treated as a malicious fiction, makes it intolerable. And Mrs. Tangle felt it so. Of this, however, by the way. Return we to Jingo.
With knowing delicate ear, the child continued to listen to the stertorous agent. At length, the boy crept from beneath the bed, and treading lightly as a fairy at a bridal couch, he made his way to the window. Now, had anybody attempted to open it for any
* Continued from p. 500, Vol. II. NO. XIII.--VOL. III.
honest purpose—had Molly, the maid, for instance, sought to raise it merely to give her opinion of the moon and the night to any rustic astronomer below-it is very certain, that the window would have stuck, and jarred, and rattled ; it was too old and crazy to be made a comfortable confidant in any such foolish business. Ten to one, but it had waked the mistress of the Olive Branch, who would inevitably have nudged the master. And now a robbery was to be done-a most tremendous robbery—perhaps, to be further solemnised by homicide-for who should say that the Parcæ who wove the red tape of the life of Tangle, attorney-atlaw, were not about to snip it ?—who shall say that so awful a crisis did not at that moment impend—and yet silently went the window up ; easily, .smoothly, as though greased by some witch ; smeared with fat “ from murderer's gibbet." It is a pity that the devil makes evil so very easy to the meanest understanding.
Two or three minutes passed, not more, and Tom Blast thrust his head and one of his legs into the chamber. There was a grim smile upon his face-a murderous simper at his mouth-a brassy brightness in his eyes, that showed him to be upon a labour of love. No soldier ever scaled a wall, to receive, it may be, a bullet or a bayonet, with the after-leaf of laurel that the Gazette punctually lets fall upon his grave—no hero, we say, his nerves strung with shouts, his heart beating to the beating drums, his blood boiling at slaughter heat, his whole soul breathing fire and gunpowder, and all to gloriously slay and sack, and burn, no such adventurous plumed biped ever looked more grimly beautiful than did that low-thoughted burglar, that leprous-minded thief. Strange and mournful this to think of! For what was there good or noble to make his muscles iron? What holy flame of patriotism raged in his heart, refining its grossness—what laurel could he hope for, wet with a nation's tears, nations always weeping when the private soldier falls ? He had none of these exalting elements to sublimate him, for a time, into an immortal imp of glory. His motive was gold ; brutalising gold! His enemy, if he came to close quarters, a weak, wine-soddened old man. His fate, if he should fail, no laurel wreath, but suffocating rope. And yet, we say, the conceit of poor humanity! We feel humbled for our nature, but we must declare the truth. Well, then, Thomas Blast, prepared for robbery, and it might be, bloodshed, looked as horribly animated-as ferociously happy-as though he had mounted