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very cradle. Poor Noah! he was all but killed, ma'am, when I came in."

"Ah, poor fellow !" said Mrs. Sowerberry, looking piteously on the charity-boy.

Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a level with the crown of Oliver's head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists while this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed some very audible tears and sniffs.

"What's to be done!" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. "Your master's not at home,-there's not a man in the house,—and he 'll kick that door down in ten minutes." Oliver's vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in question rendered this occurrence highly probable.

"Dear, dear! I don't know, ma'am," said Charlotte, "unless we send for the police-officers."

"Or the millingtary," suggested Mr. Claypole.

"No, no," said Mrs. Sowerberry, bethinking herself of Oliver's old friend; "run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap,-make haste. You can hold a knife to that black eye as you run along, and it 'll keep the swelling down."

Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-boy tearing through the streets pellmell, with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knife at his eye.


BENT upon extra thousands netting,
Graspall's the oddest mortal living!
His only object seems for-getting-

How strange he should not be for-giving!

H. H.



Abridged from the voluminous Epic Poem by Beg-beg, (formerly a mendicant ballad-singer, afterwards Principal Lord Rector of the University of Samarcand, and subsequently Historiographer and Poet Laureate to the Court of Balk,) by C. J. Davids, Esq.


THE great Tartar chief, on a festival day,

Gave a spread to his court, and resolv'd to be gay;
But, just in the midst of their music and glee,
The mirth was upset by a humble-bee-
A humble-bee-
They were bored by a rascally humble-bee!


This riotous bee was so wanting in sense
As to fly at the Cham with malice prepense:
Said his highness, "My fate will be felo-de-se,
If I'm thus to be teas'd by a humble-bee-
A humble-bee-
How shall I get rid of the humble-bee!"


The troops in attendance, with sabre and spear,
Were order'd to harass the enemy's rear:
But the brave body-guards were forced to flee-
They were all so afraid of the humble-bee-
The humble-bee-
The soldiers were scar'd by the humble-bee.


The solicitor-general thought there was reason
For indicting the scamp on a charge of high-treason;
While the chancellor doubted if any decree

From the woolsack would frighten the humble-bee—
The humble-bee-
So the lawyers fought shy of the humble-bee.


The Cham from his throne in an agony rose,
While the insect was buzzing right under his nose:-
"Was ever a potentate plagued like me,
Or worried to death by a humble-bee!

A humble-bee-
Don't let me be stung by the humble-bee!”


He said to a page, nearly choking with grief,
"Bring hither my valiant commander-in-chief;
And say that I'll give him a liberal fee,
To cut the throat of this humble-bee-
This humble-bee-
This turbulent, Jacobin, humble-bee !"


His generalissimo came at the summons,
And, cursing the courtiers for cowardly rum-uns,
My liege," said he, "it's all fiddle-de-dee
Co make such a fuss for a humble-bee-


A humble-bee

I don't care a d-n for the humble-bee !"


The veteran rush'd sword in hand on the foe,
And cut him in two with a desperate blow.
lis master exclaim'd, "I'm delighted to see
low neatly you 've settled the humble-bee!"
The humble-bee-
o there was an end of the humble-bee.


by the doctor's advice (which was prudent and right) lis ghness retired very early that night:

For they got him to bed soon after his tea,

And he dream'd all night of the humble-bee

The humble-bee


saw the grim ghost of the humble-bee.


seditious disturbers, mind well what you 're arter—

est, humming a prince, you by chance catch a Tartar. Consider, when planning an impudent spree,

You may get the same luck as the humble-bee

The humble-beeRemember the doom of the humble-bee!

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"HE won't-won't he? Then bring me my boots!" said the Baron.

Consternation was at its height in the castle of Shurland—a caitiff had dared to disobey the Baron! and—the Baron had called for his boots!

A thunderbolt in the great hall had been a bagatelle to it.

A few days before, a notable miracle had been wrought in the neighbourhood; and in those times miracles were not so common as they are now :-no Royal Balloons, no steam, no railroads,-while the few Saints who took the trouble to walk with their heads under their arms, or pull the Devil by the nose, scarcely appeared above once in a century—so it made the greater sensation.

The clock had done striking twelve, and the Clerk of Chatham was untrussing his points preparatory to seeking his truckle-bed: a half-emptied tankard of mild ale stood at his elbow, the roasted crab yet floating on its surface. Midnight had surprised the worthy functionary while occupied in discussing it, and with the task yet unaccomplished. He meditated a mighty draught: one hand was fumbling with his tags, while the other was extended in the act of grasping the jorum, when a knock on the portal, solemn and sonorous, arrested his fingers. It was repeated thrice ere Emanuel Saddleton had presence of mind sufficient to inquire who sought admittance at that untimeous hour.

"Open! open! good Clerk of St. Bridget's," said a female voice, small, yet distinct and sweet,-" an excellent thing in woman."

The clerk arose, crossed to the doorway, and undid the latchet. On the threshold stood a lady of surpassing beauty: her robes were rich, and large, and full; and a diadem, sparkling with gems that shed a halo around, crowned her brow: she beckoned the clerk as he stood in astonishment before her.

"Emanuel!" said the lady; and her tones sounded like those of a silver flute. "Emanuel Saddleton, truss up your points, and follow me!"

The worthy clerk stared aghast at the vision; the purple robe, the cymar, the coronet,-above all, the smile ;-no, there was no mistaking her; it was the blessed St. Bridget herself!

And what could have brought the sainted lady out of her warm shrine at such a time of night? and on such a night? for it was as dark as pitch, and, metaphorically speaking, "rained cats and dogs." Emanuel could not speak, so he looked the question.

"No matter for that," said the Saint, answering to his thought. "No matter for that, Emanuel Saddleton; only follow me, and you 'll


The clerk turned a wistful eye at the corner-cupboard.

"Oh, never mind the lantern, Emanuel; you'll not want it but you may bring a mattock and shovel." As she spoke, the beautiful apparition held up her delicate hand. From the tip of each of her long taper fingers issued a lambent flame of such surpassing brilliancy

as would have plunged a whole gas company into despair-it was a "Hand of Glory," such a one as tradition tells us yet burns in Rochester Castle every St. Mark's Eve. Many are the daring individuals who have watched in Gundulph's Tower, hoping to find it, and the treasure it guards;-but none of them ever did.

"This way, Emanuel !" and a flame of peculiar radiance streamed from her little finger as it pointed to the pathway leading to the churchyard.

Saddleton shouldered his tools, and followed in silence.

The cemetery of St. Bridget's was some half-mile distant from the clerk's domicile, and adjoined a chapel dedicated to that illustrious lady, who, after leading but a so-so life, had died in the odour of sanctity. Emanuel Saddleton was fat and scant of breath, the mattock was heavy, and the saint walked too fast for him: he paused to take second wind at the end of the first furlong.

"Emanuel," said the holy lady good-humouredly, for she heard him puffing; "rest a while, Emanuel, and I'll tell you what I want with you."

Her auditor wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and looked all attention and obedience.

"Emanuel," continued she, "what did you and Father Fothergill, and the rest of you, mean yesterday by burying that drowned man so close to me? He died in mortal sin, Emanuel; no shrift, no unction, no absolution: why, he might as well have been excommunicated. He plagues me with his grinning, and I can't have any peace in my shrine. You must howk him up again, Emanuel!"

"To be sure, madam,—my lady, that is, your holiness," stammered Saddleton, trembling at the thought of the task assigned him. "To be sure, your ladyship; only-that is-"

"Emanuel," said the Saint, "you'll do my bidding; or it would be better you had!" and her eye changed from a dove's eye to that of a hawk, and a flash came from it as bright as the one from her little finger. The Clerk shook in his shoes, and, again dashing the cold perspiration from his brow, followed the footsteps of his mysterious guide.



The next morning all Chatham was in an uproar. The Clerk of St. Bridget's had found himself at home at daybreak, seated in his own arm-chair, the fire out, and-the tankard of ale quite exhausted. Who had drunk it? Where had he been? How had he got home? -all was a mystery: he remembered "a mass of things, but nothing distinctly;" all was fog and fantasy. What he could clearly recollect was, that he had dug up the grinning sailor, and that the Saint had helped to throw him into the river again. All was thenceforth wonderment and devotion. Masses were sung, tapers were kindled, bells were tolled; the monks of St. Romuald had a solemn procession, the abbot at their head, the sacristan at their tail, and the holy breeches of St. Thomas-à-Becket in the centre; Father Fothergill brewed a XXX puncheon of holy-water. The Rood of Gillingham was deserted; the chapel of Rainham forsaken; every one who had a soul to be saved flocked with his offering to St. Bridget's shrine, and Emanuel Saddleton gathered more fees from the promiscuous piety of that one week than he had pocketed during the twelve preceding



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