moonlight streamed into the room full upon the girl's face; the intruder watched her closely for a minute; her eyes were closed, she breathed quietly, and was to all appearance fast asleep. The man touched her cheek with his finger: she moved a very little; that was all.

"It's all right," thought Bilson; "but I'll make sure."

He left the room, locked the door on the outside, and went out for the beer. But the girl was not asleep. Strange surmises, things that had of late crept into her mind, (which was not so young a one as her age would imply,) received a fresh impulse this night, from the circumstance of that boy being brought into the house. When ordered from the room by her uncle, curiosity-nay, something more— prompted her to listen at the door. She had barely time to escape upstairs, when Bilson left the room as before related. She feigned sleep, and thus deceived the man: failure in doing so might have been her death. No sooner was the door closed than she rose from the bed, and listened intently. She heard her uncle pass down stairs, and issue into the street. Obeying a sudden impulse, she tried the lock of her own door, intending to leave the room, and to listen over the stairs for Bilson's return. To her unutterable dismay, it was fastened. "I believe they'll murder him!" she said. 'Good God, what is to be done!"

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Bilson returned: she heard him wait for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, and then enter the room below. She tugged hard at the lock it was firm: tried to turn it back with a knife: it scraped along the edge of the bolt, but moved it not. What was to be done? The key still remained in the lock; on the outside of course. A thought struck her.

"I think I can get that key," she said. Obtaining a thin piece of twine, she fastened it to that part of the key which obtruded through the lock, and pushed it gently through. As it fell from the lock, it swayed about for an instant and struck the door more than once. She held her breath in alarm, lest the noise, slight though it was, should disturb them. There was no movement, however, from below, and the girl eased the key down till it reached the floor outside, and with it dropped the piece of twine that guided its descent. "Now then," she cried, "I'll have the key."

She bent a large pin into a hook, and tied it to the end of the knife. With this instrument she raked under the door, and presently drew the string through. A low chuckle of triumph followed. Too soon, however; the key was large, and the space between the door and flooring not wide enough to allow it to pass The girl pulled, and pulled again, till the twine snapped. Her hopes were annihilated. She fell back on the bed trembling in every joint.

The window !

The idea rushed across her mind quick as the driving clouds that flew frantically over the moon's face. Intense curiosity, no less than a latent hope of saving the boy's life, which she feared would be sacrificed, prompted her to try this means of escape. The thought was action. 'Twas done, as soon as conceived. The room where Bilson, Priestley, and the boy were, was immediately under her own. Some outhouses stretched into a yard at the back, from which she could hear, ay, and perhaps see into the room. Fastening a sheet firmly to the

window-sill, she let herself quietly down to the tiling. In another minute her ear was close to the window, and through a crack in the shutter all that passed within was visible.

Let us return to Bilson and his worthy friend.

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Now, boy," said the former, on his return with the beer; "eat away, and make yourself happy. I suppose you can sleep here on this bit of carpet? There an't nothing else for you."

The poor boy was too happy on receiving shelter, and food into the bargain, not to express his thanks in most grateful language.

Well," continued Bilson, "I'm glad you're thankful, for it an't every one as would do this for you. Drink away; don't be afraid of the beer. How old are you?"

"Eleven, sir."

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Ah, you're old enough to go a thieving."

The boy laughed; he thought the "gentlemen" were very funny, but then they were very kind too. He ate heartily of beef and bread and cheese, and drank much of the beer with which the men plied him. The drink was getting into his head, and he was merry. Poor fellow ! "Do you sing?" said Priestley.

Oh yes, sir,” replied the boy. "I sing with my hurdygurdy, and Jocko dances. But he's dead; Jocko's dead now."

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When you've done pecking," said Priestley, "you may give us a bit of a tune. I'm wonderful fond of music. So strike up, my boy, as soon as you've done."

The boy finished his supper, and taking the hurdygurdy, danced and sang to its unmusical jingle. He whirled about; jabbered bad Italian, (he knew more of English than of his native language,) and his bronze countenance was lit up with smiles, as the men applauded his performance. Poor boy! he little knew the danger he was in. The very men who shook with laughter at his light-hearted merriment contemplated his death. They made their victim sing, ay, sing the melodies of his country, that breathe of happiness and contentment, and even while they clutched at his life, laughed. Accursed fiends!

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Come, I say," cried Bilson, "it's getting late, and I must go to bed. We'll have a drop of grog afore we go, and then you can take your snooze, boy. Here, this is for you; drink it off."

The boy took the hot liquor the men had mixed for him; and poured it down his throat at a draught. He winced a little, and water came into his eyes. A few minutes more, and he fell back in his chair in a profound sleep. Bilson lifted him up, and laid him at full length on the floor.

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He is such a jolly boy," said Priestley, "it's almost a shame to settle him."

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"D-n me if ever I see such a fellow as you are," replied the other. Every thing's a 'shame' with you. Why, if it was the King or the Bishop of London, you couldn't make more fuss. Here, take summat to drink, and wash that humbug away. It's enough to turn a man sick."

"Well, well," returned Priestley, "you needn't be affronted. Let's go out for half an hour, till he's fairly stupified, and then we'll drop him in. What do you suppose he's worth?"

"Oh, a good un like him an't going under ten guineas. I know the place to take him. Come along; leave him there a bit."

So they took their hats and left the house, having previously locked the door and pocketed the key.

These men-men! we fear we have disgraced the name of man by so designating them-followed the disgusting occupation of "bodysnatching," as it is called. They found a ready market for these "subjects" at the different medical halls, where young professors studied anatomy. The difficulty and danger of ransacking the grave of its tenant, induced these fiends to try the more easy method of murdering -murdering for the sake of obtaining a few guineas for the corpse. Tremendous as this may seem, our readers may doubtless recollect the appalling disclosures of 1831, connected with this awful traffic. 'A trade of murder!

The little girl, Bilson's niece, had for some time suspected strange things; her dreams were haunted; fancies undefinable, but not the less hideous; shapeless thoughts-nothing, but every thing-flitted about her brain when night came on. It was as though the ghosts of those, murdered close by her bed, appealed to her a woman, though a child-for vengeance. Now, she knew the truth. Under the influence of this horrible conviction, the girl surpassed her nature, and became something more than human. And on the roof outside the house, shivering with cold, but her soul quickened by spiritual fire, stood this child, a watchful angel. When the fiends left their victim awhile, she descended the tiling, and passed into the house by a back entrance. But the room wherein the boy was imprisoned was locked; the key gone. With her fist she smote the panel violently, again and again. Its echo was the only answer.

"Boy, boy!" she screamed, throwing herself against the door with frantic passion. "Quick!-wake up!-hide yourself!-boy, boy!"

But he was senseless, and heard her not. She rushed below, and seizing a heavy iron bar-she could not have lifted it at another time -bore it up and dashed it against the door. It quivered under the shock. Again-and it flew open. Despite the noise, the boy lay there unmoved. Running up to him, she shook him violently, shrieking out, "Wake, wake! murder's about! Shake off this sleep-they'll

kill you! d'ye hear me? wake! wake! O God, what is to be done!" With tremendous force she lifted him from the floor, and placed him in a chair. She pinched the boy almost till the blood came, but he showed no signs of animation.

She got water, and threw it over him. He opened his eyes slowly, but he saw nothing, and they fell again. She feared to call the police; she thought her uncle would murder her if she did.

"He's still alive!" she cried, dashing more water over the boy. "Rouse yourself!-sleep no more! Death's in the room! There, take hold of me. Quick! don't fall back!-they'll be here directly. O God, will he never wake! Ah! too late-they're here! I shall be murdered!"

She stood glaring out into the passage, as the street door was heard to open, followed by the footsteps of the two men.

"Halloa!" cried Priestley, "what's that! The door's open!"

They rushed into the room, but on the instant started back affrighted on beholding that child's features, transformed with excess of passion. The girl, with a wild scream, made a rush at the door, but Bilson struck her back, and she fell-blood spouting front her face. "You hell-hound," cried the man, with a terrible oath; you first. What brought you here?-speak!" "Murder! murder!" shrieked the girl.

I'll do for

"Damnation will you hold your noise?" growled Priestley, striking the girl down again as she strove to rise. She screamed more loudly

yet, as Bilson kneeled down and caught her by the throat. But the girl's frantic cries had been heard in the street, and at this moment a violent knocking at the outer door resounded through the house.

"It's all up," cried Priestley; "leave her-quick! or we shall be taken!"

He threw open the window, and dashed through it, followed by Bilson. In another minute the street door was burst open, and several policemen rushed into the room. The girl was senseless as well as the boy, and the police at first thought them dead. Bilson and Priestley had closed the shutters behind them, and by this means deceived the officers as to their flight. The two children were conveyed to the station-house, and, after a time, recovered. It will hardly be believed that this girl, notwithstanding her uncle's attempt to kill her, refused to give any information that might criminate the men. She simply said that her uncle was ill-treating her, and so she cried out murder. She had saved the boy: revenge was foreign to her heart.

The Italian boy's story was a simple relation of the fact of the men's taking him to their home, and treating him, as he said, kindly. He knew nothing more, poor boy! So, for a time, the ruffians escaped.

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About a year after, the Italian boy, who had got another Jocko and was as merry as ever, was passing through Newgate Street at eight o'clock in the morning, when a vast crowd close by the prison attracted his attention. He mingled with it, and saw, erected in the Old Bailey, the dismal scaffold. He heard men talking of "the Burkers." Eight o'clock struck, and a minute after, a terrific yell arose from the vast multitude there assembled. It shook the air. Looking up, the boy distinctly recognised two men who appeared on the scaffold. He turned deadly pale, and felt very sick. They were the same men who entertained him a year before. He turned away his eyes from the awful spectacle; but he did not dance or sing that day.

The girl who saved his life was taken by a relative into the country, and is now a servant in a farmhouse. She fears to enter London: the great metropolis frightens her.

248

CAPTAIN BOBADIL.

IN BEN JONSON'S "EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR."

BY PAT FOGARTY, OF CORK.

"IMPUDENCE," says Theophrastus, "is a contempt for honour, induced by the hope of base lucre."a Behold in this little axiom the key to the character of the illustrious race of the Bobadils. From the earliest ages down to the present, the Bobadils have had but one ambition-money. They have lied for it, cheated for it, swaggered for it, bullied for it, sneaked for it, and at times have even squabbled for it, but money still they seldom got: and though it is their constant pursuit, they are generally as far away from the realization of their wishes as if it was the philosopher's stone. Plutus himself--the blind old godseems to have made a vow that whoever may be his subjects the Bobadil family shall not be of them. Even a poet stands a better chance than one of this fated race.

Perhaps you will ask how does all this happen? I will tell you. The Bobadils do not know the way to get rich. They walk in a certain path, to be sure, which they imagine leads direct to the temple of riches, but when they have got to the end they find themselves in the temple of contempt. They always mistake the road, and never find their error until it is too late. It is no use to tell them they are wrong. A Bobadil never yet went right, even by mistake.

But who are these Bobadils? In sooth they are a company of potent, grave, and reverend signiors-stout swash-bucklers, whose sole profession is to live pleasantly at the expense of their neighbours. London swarms with them-so does Paris; so does Rome; so does St. Petersburg, so does every great capital. And yet they are neither Jews nor authors. In our own happy land they are generally called "men about town;" on the continent they sport a title, and are called "chevaliers d'industrie."

Destitute of truth, honour, courage, intellect, or any one redeeming quality, the Bobadils live by their ways and means, from hand to mouth, practising a thousand wretched shifts and tricks to impose upon the world, and leading a life that is, from the first act to the finale, a base odious lie. Their whole object is to keep up appearances, and this can be done only by falsehood and sycophancy. Some have great estates and great connexions, but they prudently avoid adding that the first are in Cloudland, and the second somewhere between this earth and the nearest fixed star. Others have splendid expectations, which are just as likely to be fulfilled as those of Tantalus, while some more have played a gallant part in the wars, and can recount to you campaigns achieved under their advice, and cities that surrendered on the mere report of their presence. All these fellows are idle as drones. Their inventive faculties alone show that they live, and it is by these very faculties they contrive to live. Do they meet some young and inexperienced heir of noble or ignoble blood? Do they fall in with some cockney fool who despises the homely manners of the city, and apes the monkey fashions of the court? Then, indeed, a Bobadil is in his

* Η δι ἀναισχυντία εστι καταφρόνησις δόξης αισχροῦ ἕνικα κερδους. Cap. IX. Charact Ethic.