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The stranger kindled into enthusiasm, and into eloquence. "What," said he, " what is so iniquitous as these pre-ordinations of our fate against our will? We are born to a certain line—we are accomplished to that line alone—our duty is confined to a certain routine of execution—we are mewed up like owls in a small conventual circle of gloom—we are paid sufficient for what we perform—we have, therefore, no incentive to our enterprise and ambition—the greater part of our life is a blank to us. If we stir abroad into more wide and common intercourse with mankind, we are perpetually reminded that a stamp is upon us—we cannot consult our inclinations—we must not marry as we please—we can never escape from ourselves—" "And," pursued the philosopher, who liked to talk himself as well as to listen; "and while so unpleasant to yourself are these dangerous and hateful hereditary distinctions, what mischiefs do they not produce to your fellow-creatures !—condemned to poverty, they are condemned to the consequences of poverty;—ignorance and sin —they offend, and you hang them!" "Hang—them!" "Ah!" the benevolent stranger covered his face with his hands. "What philanthropic tenderness!" said the philosopher; "Pardon me, Sir, I must introduce myself: you may have heard of me; I am the author Slatterenobigioso; you, so enlightened, are probably an author yourself; perhaps you have turned your attention to Morals, and are acquainted with the true nature of crime." "Ay," groaned the stranger, " I am acquainted with its end." "Or perhaps biography, the great teacher of practical truths, made you first learn to think. For my part I amuse myself even now by taking the lives of some of the most remarkable of my contemporaries." "Indeed!" said the stranger with inexpressible dignity, and then putting on his hat with an air, he stalked out of the room, saying over his left shoulder in a voice of conscious pride—" And I, Sir, have done the same."
CHAPTER VIII.—THE JEALOOSV.
"She wrongs his thoughts."—THE CoaSAI».
"Ah, miss!" said the tailor, as he passed through the country town on a high trotting horse, and met the unfortunate Laura walking homeward with "The Sorrows of Werter" in her hand: "Ah! so the spark has carried himself off. How could you
be so taken in? What! marry a ""I know what you
would say," interrupted Laura haughtily, "and I beg you will be silent. You knew him, then." "Ay, by sight. I have seen him on trying occasions, sure enough. But you will meet him no more, I guess: he is wanted in town to-morrow morning." "Gracious 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 fs not for rnysrlt I do these things, but for my cOMllry."
Plutabi H's Aphorism Whrm Ik Puci.
Common Aphorism among •]! Placroxn.
"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,movedawell-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 i" 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?
Kew Montlily Mag.
THE FRIARS OF DIJON.
Wksn honc'.t men eonfess'd their sins, They march'd about from place to place.
In Burgundy two Capuchins And mended brokrn consciences,
One friar was Father Boniface,
And he ne'er knew disquiet,
O'er mortifying diet.
The other was lean Dominick,
Albeit, he tippled like n fish,
And mortal man ne'er clear'd a dish
Those saints without the shirts arrived,
One evening late, to pigeon
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,
They laugh'd like two hyaenas.
Alternately, the host and spouse
Regaled each pardon-gauger,
And lied as for a wager—
'Bout churches like baloons convey'd
With aeronautic martyrs;
And if their hearers gaped, I guess.
With jaws three inch asunder,
Then striking up duets, the freres
From psalms to sentimental airs.
At last, they would have danced outright,
Like a baboon and tame bear,
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.
But every deed will have Its meed:
Has made the sinners, in a trice.
The farmer on a hone prepares
And talks of killing both the freres.
To-morrow by the break of day,
Ho orders too, saltpetre.
Our host was no man-eater.
The priests knew not that country-folk Give pigs the name of friars;
As if they trod on briars.
Meanwhile, as they perspired with dread,
The hair of either craven
What, pickle and smoke us limb by limb.'
God curse him and his lardners!
Yet, Dominick, to die !—the bare
Idea shakes one oddly ;—
Would that, for absolution's sake Of all our sins and cogging,
O Dominick, thy nether end
Should bleed for expiation, And thou shouldst have, my dear fat friend,
A glorious flagellation
Bui having ne'er a switch, poor souls.
Vet, 'midst this penitential plight
And so they girt themselves to leap. Both under breath imploring
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 on his parts behind. That broaden'd with the plumping
There long beneath the window':
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,
Asif they'd known their namesake.
Meanwhile the other flew to town. And with short respiration
Men left their beds, and night-capp'd heads Explaining lost but little breath t— Popp'd out from every casement; Here ended all the matter;
The cats ran frighten'd on the leads; So (jod save Queen Elizabeth,
Dijon was all amazement. And long live Henry 0,uatre!
Doors bang'd, dogs baj'd, and boys hurra'd.
Till soundest-sleeping watchmen woke.
Who charging him before police.
Demands of Dominick surly, What earthquake, fire, or breach of peace
Made all this hurly-burty?
Ass—quoth the ptiest—ass-assins. Sir,
About to salt, scrape. massacre,
Soon at the magistrate's command,
A troop from the gens-d'arme's house
Comes Jacquez to the swineyard,
'Twas Boniface, as mail's King Lear.
Playing antics in the piggery :— "And what the devil brought you here.
You mountain of a friar, eh ?'*
Ah, once how jolly, now how wan.
And blubber'd with the vapour'. That frantic Capuchin began
To cut fantastic capers—
Crying, Help, hallo, the bellows bl'
I am a pretty pig, but, no!
Nor was this raving fit a sham;
In truth, he was hysterical,
Just as the horsemen halted near.
Crying, Murderer, stop, ohoj, oh! Jacquez was comforting the fiere With a good glass of noyeau—
Who beckon'd 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.
The gens-d'armes at the story broke
Lean Dominick, methiuks, his chaps
1'UOMAS C* MPBBI.t
"Are 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 1 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 thai 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 het 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! 1 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 Opic." vols. 12mo. f Night bag. t Sweet doing nothing.