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Heaven! for what?" said Laura, thinking the Marquis de Tete Perdu was again apprehended for not having been hanged sufficiently. "Why—be prepared—Miss, he is going to tie the noose." "Wretch! perfidious wretch!" shrieked Laura, as her fear now changed into jealousy; " do you mean that he is going to lead another to the altar?" "Exactly, Miss!" said the tailor, and off went his high trotting horse.

CHAPTER IX.—THE DENOUEMENT.

"It is not for myself I do these things, but for my country."

PtUTAHCH'S APHORISM WHEN IN PLACE.
Common Aphorism among all Placeman.

"Poor cousin Jack!" said the lawyer, as he was eating his breakfast; "he has been playing very naughty pranks, to be sure: but he is our cousin, nevertheless. We should pay him all possible respect. Come, girl, get on your bonnet; you may as well come with me: it will divert your mind." "La! papa: but, to be sure, there will be a great crowd. It is a most affecting sight ; and, after all, I thinkadrive maydomegood." "That's right, girl,"said the father: and they were soon on the road to the capital. They arrived at an open space, but filled with spectators; they beheld a platform, raised above the heads of the people; Laura grew very faint with anxiety and heat. She heard the spectators talking to each other. "They say," observed one, " that it is with great difficulty he was persuaded to the calling—it has been four hundred years in the family—he took himself away, but came back when he heard the fees were augmented—you know he gets all the clothes." "There's poor cousin Jack," quoth the Attorney: "how pale he is!''

Laura looked. To the side of cousin Jack, who was about to be hanged, moved a well-known figure. "The Marquisde Tete Perdu!'' cried the Lawyer aghast? "My lover! my lover!" screamed Laura. "My eye! that's the Hereditary Hangman!" said a bystander with open mouth. "Hereditary Hangman!" said an English Lord, who was by chance an attendant at the spectacle. "Hereditary Hangman !.—what a burlesque on the Peerage!"

Is it a burlesque truly, or is the one about as wise as the other?

New Monthly Mag.

THE FRIARS OF DIJON.

When honest men confess'd their sins, They march'd about from place to place.
And paid the church Renteelly— With shrift and dispensation;

In Burgundy two Capuchins And mended broken consciences,
Lived jovially and freely. Soul-tinkers by vocation.

One friar was Father Boniface,

And he ne'er knew disquiet,
Save when condemned to saying grace

O'er mortifying diet.

The other was lean Dominick,
Whose slender form, and sallow. Would scarce have made a candlewick
For Boniface's tallow.

Albeit, he tippled like a fish.
Though not the same potation;

And mortal man ne'er clear'd a dish
With nimbler mastication.

Those saints without the shirts arrived,

One evening late, to pigeon
A country pair for alms, that lived

About a league from Dijon—

Whose supper-pot was set to boil.

On faggots briskly crackling: The friars enter'd, with a smile

To Jacquez and to Jacqueline.

They bow'd and bless'd the dame, and then

In pious terms besought her. To give two holy-minded men

A meal of bread and water.

For water and a crust they crave.

Those mouths that even on Lent days Scarce knew the taste of water, save When watering for dainties.

Quoth Jacquez, "That were sorry cheer

For men fatigued and dusty; And if ye supp'd on crusts. I fear,

You'd go to bed but crusty."

So forth he brought a flask of rich

Wine, fit to feast Silenus,
And viands, at the sight of which

They laugh'd like two hyrcnas.

Alternately, the host and spouse

Regaled each pardon-gauger,
Who told them tales right marvellous,

And lied as for a wager—

'Bout churches like baloons convey'd

With aeronautic martyrs;
And wells made warm, where holy maid
Had only dlpp'd her garters.

And if their hearers gaped, I guess.

With jaws three inch asunder,
'Twas partly out of weariness,
And partly out of wonder.

Then striking up duets, the freres
Went on to sing in matches,

From psalms to sentimental airs.
From these to glees and catches.

At last, they would have danced outright,

Like a baboon and tame bear,
If Jacquez had not drunk, Good night

And shown them to their chamber.

The room was high, the host's was nigh—
Had wife or he suspicion, That monks would make a raree-show
Of chinks in the partition ?—

Or that two confessors would come.

Their holy ears out-reaching To conversations as hum-drum

Almost as their own preaching?

Shame on you, Friars of orders gray, That peeping knelt, and wriggling.
And when ye should have gone to pray,
Betook yourselves to giggling!

But every deed will have Its meed:
And hark 1 what information

Has made the sinners, in a trice.
Look black with consternation,

The farmer on a hone prepares
His knife, a long and keen one;

And talks of killing both the freres.
The fat one, and the lean one.

To-morrow by the break of day.

He orders too, saltpetre.
And pickling-tubs; but. reader, stay,

Our host was no man-eater.

The priests knew not that country .folk
Give pigs the name of friars;But startled, witless of the joke,
As if they trod on briars.

Meanwhile, as they perspired with dread,

The hair of either craven
Had stood erect upon his head.
But that their heads were shaven.

What, pickle and smoke us limb by limb 3

God curse him and his lardners I
St Peter will bedevil him.
If he saltpetres Friars.

Yet, Dominick, to die !—the bare

Idea shakes one oddly ,—
Yes. Boniface, 'tis time we were
Beginning to be godly.

Would that, for absolution's sake
Of all our sins and cogging, We had a whip, to give and take
A last kind mutual flogging.

O Dominick, thy nether end

Should bleed for expiation, And thou shouldst have, my dear fat friend,

A glorious flagellation.

Ilut having ne'er a switch, poor souls. They bow'd like weeping willows,
And told the Saints long rigmaroles Of all their peccadillos,

Yet, 'midst this penitential plight
A thought their fancies tickled,
Jwere better brave the window's height
i nan be at morning pickled.

And so they girt themselves to leap. Both under breath imploring
A regiment of Saints to keep

Xheir host and hostess snoring.

The lean one lighted like a cat. Then scamper'd off like Jehu. Nor stopp'd to help the man cf fat. Whose cheek was of a clay hue—

Who being by nature more design'd

For resting than for ;umping. Fell heavy un his parts behind. That brc-aden'd with the plumping.

There long beneath the window's sconce

His bruises he sat pawing. Squat as the figure of a bonze

Upon a Chinese drawing.

At length he waddled to a sty;

The pigs, you'd thought for game sake. Came round and nosed him lovingly.

As if they'd known their namesake.

Meanwhile the other flew to town. And with short respiration

Bray 'd like a donkey up and down Ass-ass-ass-assination 1

Men left their beds, and night-capp'd heads Explaining lost but little breath :—

Popp'd out from every casement; Here ended all the matter;

The. cats ran frlgbten'd on the leads; So God save Queen Elizabeth,

Di;on was all amazement. And long live Henry f^uatre!

Doors bang'd, dogs bay'd, and boys hurra'd, The gens-d'armes at the story broke

Throats gaped aghast in bare rows. Into horse-fits of laughter.

Till soundest-sleeping watchmen woke, And, as if they had known the ;oLe

And even at last the mayor rose— Their horses neigh'd thereafter.

Who charging him before police,

Demands of Dominick surly, Whit earthquake, lire, or breach of peace

Made all this hurly-burly?

Ass—quoth the priest—ass-assins. Sir,
Are 'hence a league, or nigher)

About to salt, scrape.massacre(
And barrel up a friar.

Soon at the magistrate's command.

A troop from the gens-d'arme's huuse
Of twenty men rode sword in hand.
To storm the bloody farm's house.

As they were cantering toward the placet

Comes Jacquez to the swineyard, But started when a great round face Cried, Rascal, hold thy whinyard.

'Twas Boniface, as mail's King Lear,

Playing antics in the piggery :— "And what the devil brought you heie. You mountain of a friar, eh ?*.

Ah, once how jolly, now how wan.

And blubber'd with the vapours. That frantic Capuchin began

To cut fantastic capers—

Crying. Help, hallo, the bellows Mow,
The pot is on to stew me;

I am a pretty pig, but* no!
They shall not barbacue me.

Nor was this raving fit a sham;

In truth, he was hysterical,
Until they brought him out a dram

And that wrought like a miracle.

Just as the horsemen halted near,

Crying, Murderer, stop, ohoy, oh! Jacquez was comforting the frere With a good glass of uoyeau—

Who beckonM to them not to kick up

A row: but, waxing mellow, Squeez'd Jacquez* hand, and with a hiccup

Said, You're a damn'd good fellow.

Lean Dominick, methinks, his chaps
Yawn'd weary, worn, and moody;
So may my readers loo, perhaps,
And thus I wish 'em Good day.

Thomas ('AttMlMu

THE BANK NOTE.*

"Aae you returning immediately to Worcester?" said Lady Leslie, a widow residing near that city, to a young officer who was paying her a morning visit.—"I am; can I do any thing for you there"—" Yes; you can do me a great kindness. My confidential servant, Baynes, is gone out for the day and night; and I do not like to trust my new footman, of whom I know nothing, to put this letter in the post-office, as it contains a fifty-pound note."—" Indeed! that is a large sum to trust to the post."—" Yes; but I am told it is the safest conveyance. It is, however, quite necessary that a person whom I can trust should put the letter in the box."—" Certainly," replied Captain Freeland. Then, with an air that showed he considered himself as a person to be trusted, he deposited the letter in safety in his pocket-book, and took leave; promising he would return to dinner the next day, which was Saturday.

On his road, Freeland met some of his brother-officers, who wero going to pass the day and night at Great Malvern; and as they earnestly pressed him to accompany them, he wholly forgot the letter intrusted to his care; and, having despatched his servant to Worcester, for his sac-de nuit\ and other things, he turned back with his companions, and passed the rest of the day in that sauntering but amusing idleness, that dolce far niente,\ which may be reckoned comparatively virtuous, if it leads to the forgetfulness of little duties only, and is not attended by the positive infringement of greater ones. But, in not putting this important letter into the post, as he had engaged to do, Freeland violated a real duty; and he might have put it in at Malvern, had not the rencounter with his brother-officers banished the commission given him entirely from his thoughts. Nor did he remember it, till, as they rode through the village the next morning, on their way to Worcester, they met Lady Leslie walking in the road.

At sight of her, Freeland recollected, with shame and confusion, that he had not fulfilled the charge committed to him; and fain would he have passed her unobserved; for, as she was a woman of high fashion, great talents, and some severity, he was afraid that his negligence, if avowed, would not only cause him to forfeit her favour, but expose him to her powerful sarcasm.

To avoid being recognized was, however, impossible; and as soon as Lady Leslie saw him, she exclaimed, " Oh! Captain Freeland, I am so glad to see you I I have been quite uneasy concerning my letter since I gave it to your care; for it was of such consequence!

* From " Illustrations of Lying in all ita branches. By Amelia Opie." 1&2&. 2 vols. 12mu. f Night bag. % Sweet doing nothing.

Did you put it into the post yesterday?" "Certainly," replied Freeland, hastily, and in the hurry of the moment, " Certainly. How could you, dearMadam, doubt my obedience to your commands ?"— "Thank you! thank you 1" cried she, "How you have relieved my mind!" He had so; but he had painfully burthened his own. To be sure, it was only a white lie,—the lie of fear. Still he was not used to utter falsehood: and he felt the meanness and degradation of this. He had yet to learn that it was mischievous also; and that none can presume to say where the consequences of the most apparently trivial lie will end. As soon as Freeland parted with Lady Leslie, he bade his friends farewell, and, putting spur to his horse, scarcely slackened his pace till he had reached a general postoffice, and deposited the letter in safety. "Now, then," thought he, " I hope I shall be able to return and dine with Lady Leslie, without shrinking from her penetrating eye."

He found her, when he arrived, very pensive and absent; so much so, that she felt it necessary to apologize to her guests, informing them that Mary Benson, an old servant of hers, who was very dear to her, was seriously ill, and painfully circumstanced; and that she feared she had not done her duty by her. "To tell you the truth, Captain Freeland," said she, speaking to him in a low voice, "I blame myself for not having sent for my confidential servant, who was not very far off, and despatched him with the money, instead of trusting it to the post.".—" It would have been better to have done so, certainly!" replied Freeland, deeply blushing. "Yes; for the poor woman, to whom I sent it, is not only herself on the point of being confined, but she has a sick husband, unable to be moved; and as, but owing to no fault of his, he is on the point of bankruptcy, his cruel landlord has declared that, if they do not pay their rent by to-morrow, he will turn them out into the street, and seize the very bed they lie on! However, as you put the letter into the post yesterday, they must get the fifty pound note to-day, else they could not; for there is no delivery of letters in London on a Sunday, you know." "True, very true," replied Freeland, in a tone which he vainly tried to render steady. "Therefore," continued Lady Leslie, "if you had told me, when we met, that the letter was not gone, I should have recalled Baynes, and sent him off by the mail to London; and then he would have reached Somerstown, where the Bensons live, in good time;—but now, though I own it would be a comfort to me to send him, for fear of accident, I could not get him back again soon enough;—therefore, I must let things take their chance; and, as letters seldom miscarry, the only danger is, that the note may be taken out." She might have talked an hour without answer or interruption;—for Freeland was too much shocked, too

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