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remember, I depend upon your good resolution, that I may not be laughed at for hiring a servant from a gaol." With these words, St. James quitted the prison, leaving St. Giles bewildered, lost in happiness. He glanced at the card, saw the name-the name of that noble, gracious boy, who had before preserved him—and the poor convict fell upon his knees, and with a grateful bursting heart prayed for his protector.

Let us now for a brief space, shift the scene to the Lamb and Star. It was ten at night, and the house was crammed with revellers, all met to celebrate the triumph of injured innocence— to drink and drink to the attested purity of Robert Willis. What stories were told of his spirit, his address, his gallantry-how often, too, were curses called down upon the head of him who would have spilt such guiltless blood-how often did the drinkers wish they had St. Giles among them, that they might tear him to bits-yes, limb him for his infamy! And ere the night passed they had their wish; for St. Giles entered the Lamb and Star, and called with the confidence of a customer about him. But who was to know St. Giles in the neatly-dressed, trim-looking groom-the tall, clean-faced looking young fellow-that took his mug of ale from the hands of Becky, and nodded so smilingly at her? True it is, the girl stared; the blood rushed about her face; and darting from the room, she cried to herself," It is-it is! the Lord preserve us"-but Becky looked with womanly eyes, and remembered the ragged outcast in the spruce serving-man. In a few moments she returned to the room, and whilst she affected to give change to St. Giles, she said in a low, agitated voice—“ I know you-they'll know you, too, soon; and then they'll have your life: go away: if you love-if you love yourself go away! What a man you are! What brings you here?"

"Just this little remembrance," said St. Giles, "for you got yourself into trouble for helping me: just this odd little matter; keep it for my sake, wench," and he placed a little silken huswife in her hand.

"Law!" said Becky, "I didn't do nothing for you that I wouldn't ha' done for anybody else; still I will keep this, anyhow;" and Becky again blushing, again ran from the room. At the same moment, there was a shout outside the house of "Master Willis-Master Willis," and loud and long were the huzzas that followed. The door was flung open, and Willis, franticly drunk, rushed in, followed by several of his companions who with him.

had celebrated the triumph of the day. Willis threw himself into a chair, and called for "a thousand bowls of punch "—and then he would have a song-and then he would have all the village girls roused up, and dance the night through.

Great was the respect felt by the landlord of the Lamb and Star for Mr. Willis nevertheless, the tumult rose to such a height, that Blink, with bending back, and in the very softest voice, begged of his honour not to insist upon a dance so late at night. Willis, with a death-pale face-his hair disordered-his eyes stupidly rolling-glared and hiccupped, and snapt his fingers at the nose of the landlord.

"Now, squire, do be advised, do indeed-you'll hurt your health, squire, if you 've any more to-night, I know you will,' said Blink.

"You know!" shouted Willis-" Mughead! what do you know? Yes-ha ha ha!-you 're a pretty conjuror, you are. You know! Ha! you were the foreman of the jury, I believe? A pretty foreman-a precious jury! And you found me Not Guilty! Fool! nincompoop-ass! Here I want to say something to you. Closer-a little closer." Blink approached still nearer to the drunken madman, when the ruffian spat in the landlord's face; he then roared a laugh, and shouted-" that for you! I killed the old fellow-I did it-damn me, I did it." And the wretch, trying to rise from his chair, fell prostrate to the ground ; whilst all in the room shrunk with horror from the self-denounced homicide.

THE DRUNKARD'S DREAM.

I SAW, with seemingly waking eyes,
And a strange and strong reality,
My wife in her dying agonies,

And a fiend with a face replete with glee
Bending over her wasted frame,
Calling her mockingly by her name.
Anon he spoke-" Oh, oh," said he,
"A husband drunk as drunk can be!

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Bite at the bosom, starveling young:

Thy father is drunk, thy mother is dead:
Live to be doom'd, live to be hung-
A pauper, a felon, but die in no bed."

I saw my eldest-born in rags,
A quiet, silent boy was he;

But his was not the soul that drags
Days tainted by life's leprosy.
Proud in his youth well spent,

Sad in his hopes to tatters rent,
A bosom bursting with shame's dismay,
Blasted the bud of his promising May.

I

saw,

and how my soul shook then,
My daughter (my joy, my pride,
Ere I had turned to a pestilent den
My home and its fireside);

I saw her, my fair and delicate child-
Yes, once she was delicate and fair,
Meek and lowly, gentle and mild,
And ever with softest speech to spare ;
I saw her with front brazen and bold,
Bloated and broken ere she was old;

And looks I saw from her once chaste eyes,
And words I heard from her lips once pure,
Telling abroad her infamy;

And I shriek'd with pain beyond endure!

And then I saw a younger frame:

My fair-hair'd Alfred, he was there;

I remembered the time when he nightly came
To my feet, and murmur'd his little prayer!
And Tom with his face of innocent mirth,
And his voice of cheerful, chirrupping glee;
And Will, who lit up our evening hearth
With his flashes of infant jollity;
And George, a smiling and gentle boy,
Who lived in a quiet gush of joy ;

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