ourselves, my good and sudden friend, I have not yet had a spare minute to throw away upon the next.

And Crossbone was also a man of the world. Hence, he felt himself drawn towards Shoveller, even as two dead logs in a pond are attracted to one another. In the very dawn and roseate blush of their friendship, Mr. Shoveller had informed Crossbone that he was the owner of a snug, retired nook, buried away amid trees in a wild patch of country; a solitary house, without, as he observed, the curse of neighbours. He had seen so much of town-life in his days at times, too, mixed so very actively amongst the company of London-that now and then, he felt it absolutely necessary to the preservation of his health, nay, even of his life-to be turned out to a bit of grass. And as Mr. Shoveller spoke, the face of Crossbone was lighted from an inner light; for his fancy glowed with a pleasant picture-that of Mrs. Snipeton spirited from her chastised lord-justly punished for the offence of marriage-and dwelling, like a wood-dove, for a timely season, at least, in that pleasant hermitage.

Briefly, Mr. Shoveller offered his house and household devilsfor surely sometimes the lares have cloven feet and barbed tails— to the service of Mr. Crossbone; who, without offence to the spirit of hospitality, in the prettiest manner hinted at hard payment at an early day. Whereupon, Mr. Shoveller professed his readiness. to engage a dear and valued friend or two-he had a large bosom for friends, that man; and could, upon occasion, have lodged all Newgate-to form an escort for the lady, from the perils of the journey. And Mr. Shoveller kept his word; it was his pride to do so; and the greater the mischief to be done, the more binding did he seem to hold the engagement.

It was the morning after the service accomplished by Mr. Shoveller, and he and Crossbone walked in the little orchard: walked as friends should walk, newly knit together by rascal wrong; they both took such pains to be at ease. "A sweet place, here; a very sweet place," said Crossbone.

Why, yes; the grass is as green here as anywhere; the birds sing as well, and the flowers are as fresh; but what of that?" answered the philosophic Shoveller, "I never care to brag."

"No man of the world does," said Crossbone. Bless me

what a crop of apples you'll have!"

!

"And pears, and plums, and cherries," said Shoveller, slowly; and then he added, "Mrs. Snipeton has a devilish pretty mouth.

And to think her lips should keep so red; when, I doubt not, winter has touched them so often. Ha! ha! Poor little kitten! How she pouted! Well, if I love to see anything, it is now and then to look upon a pretty woman in a tearing rage.'

We know not what recollection darkened Crossbone's mind-he had known the sorrows of widowhood, and perhaps felt them anew -but he gazed with mixed sadness and surprise at Mr. Shoveller. "Taste is everything; it's the salt of life; without it we should be as like one another as snails; and for what I know, have just as much enjoyment. Nevertheless there is a taste that grows into a disease; and, pardon me, my dear friend, if I think a taste for a lady in a rage, is a taste of that very sort. Now cannibalism is only a taste, nothing more. Nevertheless, though-as men of the world-we may flay one another, we respect the decencies of life, and stop there."-Thus spoke Crossbone.

"It is such a pretty sight" said Shoveller, returning to the picture" to see what they would do, with what they only do. When I lifted her from her horse, her little white hand grasped me, as it would tear me to bits. Don't madam,' said I; 'I'm ticklish, and shall laugh' and when I put her in the carriage, and placed myself beside her, she looked at me, as though she thought her eyes burning-glasses that must make tinder of me; and worked her precious lips, as though they were crossbows shooting twenty deaths at me. And then-but I asked her pardon like a gentleman—and then I laughed-I couldn't help it. Oh, I do love a woman in a rage; it gives the pretty thing such animation; turns so much that seems china-work into real flesh and blood."

"And nails," Crossbone was about to say; but with an afterthought he waived the subject, as painful, and observed-" You don't think it possible Mrs. Snipeton can see me here? Because, you know, my dear friend, I must not be known in this business; that is, unless professionally."

"Do you see that hand?" said Shoveller, exhibiting his right palm close under Crossbone's eye.

"Perfectly well; I once studied chiromancy-that is, as a boy -and I can see that your hand was made

"For roasted chestnuts."

Crossbone stared.

66

Nay, nay, you are, you know it, a man of the world. The chestnut is in the house there; and this is the hand-the paw of

poor puss-that you, knowing pug that

used to ".

you are-that you have

"Now, my dear friend," exclaimed Crossbone, apprehending the intended application, "if I thought you thought so, I assure you it would make me very unhappy. Very unhappy, indeed. You see mine is a very difficult, a very delicate part. For tomorrow, I must see Mr. Snipeton.'

"And, perhaps," said Shoveller with his best gravity, "perhaps prescribe for him."

Should his condition require it "-assented Crossbone-" prescribe for him."

66

Well, as you know the seat of his complaint,' and Shoveller jerked his head towards the house-" no one betteryou 'll have but little trouble with him. Poor old man! Don't bleed him much. Ha

ha!"

"Don't sport with surgery. It has been my weakness-I may say, very unprofitable weakness-to have too much respect for my profession. I love it so dearly, I can't suffer a joke upon it. Hark!" cried Crossbone, and he turned towards the road and listened-" hark! Own me a wizard, now. That's a horse."

"Well, in the worst of times, you couldn't have been burned for that prophecy," said Shoveller.

"Yes; but a horse that carries a lover. There's a beating heart at full gallop and-did I not say so?" and Crossbone receding behind a shrub pointed to young St. James as he slackened his pace at the house. Now, my dear friend, I must leave you; I must wait upon his lordship. You know your promise—I mean -our bargain? The house-'

66

"Is his lordship's," cried Shoveller; and that man of the world looked very wise. "The house, and all that's in it. I know true hospitality; especially, when paid for. I have the honour, Doctor Crossbone-'

"Not yet: no diploma just yet," said Crossbone, meekly; and with a faint smile.

"Oh, it's coming fast, now. When rascality-not, my dear friend, that I mean rascality-I would speak as a man of the world-when rascality succeeds, dignity as a matter of course must follow. Therefore, again Doctor Crossbone, I have the honour to wish you a good morning; and more, the unbounded gratitude of your excellent and noble employer." With this wish, gravely delivered, and a dignified movement of the hat,

Mr. Shoveller resigned his place of host to the apothecary, and struck down the garden, away into the fields; perhaps to meditate on life, and all its doings.

Ere the reader could learn this much, Crossbone was at the side of his lordship, who, dismounting, resigned his horse to Ralph Gum and that very intelligent youth looked at Crossbone, and then looked at the house, as though his moral sense took a good, hearty snuff at some mysterious mischief, and enjoyed it hugely. "Your lordship," said Crossbone, "shall not the horses be put ? There's stabling-"

"No: at least, not for the present. He has his orders," said St. James, who was then bowed into the house, and Gum, buried in thought, walked the horses down the road. It was very certain that his lordship was committed to some piece of pleasant knavery; and the young man felt complimented that, ever so humbly, he had been permitted to mix in it. Wages must

be raised.

Crossbone led St. James into a large low room; plainly, but solidly appointed. The oaken furniture was black and shining with age and huswifery: and a few pictures on the walls -portraits of long since forgotten churchyard earth-looked coldly, gloomily, on the intruders. The young lord seemed ill at ease, like one who had given up his conscience to the keeping of another, yet feared to call him to account for the trust. Now he glanced moodily at Crossbone, and now with his whip, beat at his boot. But Crossbone-happy in his triumph-marked it not. He had succeeded in so great an attempt; he had such a radiant captive to adorn his victory, that he marked not the ingratitude of the man so undeservedly made happy. Crossbone expanded himself, body and soul, that he might receive all the blessings to be poured down upon him. And at length his lordship, looking full at his benefactor, observed, "Well, sir?"

66

Crossbone winced a little; only for a moment. And then vigorously smiling, and bowing, and throwing apart his arms, as if with the action he would his open very heart, said, My lord; my dear lord-if, on this happy occasion, you will allow me to call you so I congratulate you. At length, you are in the very house".

"And whose mansion may it be?" questioned St. James, glancing to and fro.

66

Oh, for that matter, my lord, your lordship's own; that I have settled-your own, so long as you shall deign to use it. You are, master" and Crossbone laughed like a tickled demon-" master of the house, and all the house contains."

"And that, Mr. Crossbone, doesn't seem to promise much," said the ungrateful young nobleman.

Crossbone smiled, as conscious knowledge may be allowed to smile, and with his left-hand fingers coaxed his chin. He then mincingly approached St. James, and like one about to speak a spell ineffable, said "Mrs. Snipeton"-and then the apothecary paused, and stared. As well he might: for that very ardent young nobleman the lord St. James, did not spring to his feet, re-echoing the silver name. No his lordship-gravely as he would have sat in Parliament, had not the democratic, misanthropic muffin-maker defeated him-his lordship for the second time, made answer "Well, sir?"

"Mrs. Snipeton, my lord, is at this moment, in this house," cried Crossbone, with the emphasis of an injured man.

"Is it possible?" exclaimed St. James, and his blood rose to his face.

"Permit me to observe, my lord"-said Crossbone, naturally affected, hurt by the late placidity of his patron-" that to devotion, and fidelity, with a little intelligence-for true wisdom never brags-I defy my enemies to say it of me-all things are possible. Mrs. Snipeton is here: here, my lord, without"-and the apothecary chuckled at the thought, it was so droll" without Mr. Snipeton."

It was very strange-very odd, what could his lordship be composed of? He showed no sign of an attempt to snatch the apothecary to his arms; in the gratitude of that warm embrace, forgetful, for one fleeting moment, of the world and its ceremonies that ought to make the gap between them. No: as though his lordship was sitting for a statue of patriotism, or stoicism, or any other virtue to be wrought in stone for a very miserable posterity -for as the world, upon the best authority, with every generation gets worse and worse, in due time, the demi-gods of one age will of course become the Troglodytes or Cretins of another—as though we say, his lordship had posed himself for a sculptor, to go down a seated giant to future dwarfs, so did he listen to the tremendous intelligence uttered by Crossbone. Is gratitude extinct?-thought Crossbone passed from the world with its dragons and griffins?