LITMIR.BIZ

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way, when this gentleman was reading. The robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done, and I saw that this boy was perfectly amazed and stupified by it." Having by this time recovered a little breath, the worthy book-stall keeper proceeded to relate in a more coherent manner the exact circumstances of the robbery.

      "Why didn't you come here before?" said Fang after a pause.

      "I hadn't a soul to mind the shop," replied the man; "everybody that could have helped me had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till five minutes ago, and I've run here all the way."

      "The prosecutor was reading, was he?" inquired Fang, after another pause.

      "Yes," replied the man, "the very book he has got in his hand."

      "Oh, that book, eh?" said Fang. "Is it paid for?"

      "No, it is not," replied the man, with a smile.

      "Dear me, I forgot all about it!" exclaimed the absent old gentleman, innocently.

      "A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!" said Fang, with a comical effort to look humane. "I consider, sir, that you have obtained possession of that book under very suspicious and disreputable circumstances, and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner of the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!"

      "D – me!" cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had kept down so long, "d – me! I'll – "

      "Clear the office!" roared the magistrate. "Officers, do you hear? Clear the office!"

      The mandate was obeyed, and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed out, with the book in one hand and the bamboo cane in the other, in a perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance.

      He reached the yard, and it vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned and his temples bathed with water: his face a deadly white, and a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame.

      "Poor boy, poor boy!" said Mr. Brownlow bending over him. "Call a coach, somebody, pray, directly!"

      A coach was obtained, and Oliver, having been carefully laid on one seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.

      "May I accompany you?" said the book-stall keeper looking in.

      "Bless me, yes, my dear friend," said Mr. Brownlow quickly. "I forgot you. Dear, dear! I've got this unhappy book still. Jump in. Poor fellow! there's no time to lose."

      The book-stall keeper got into the coach, and away they drove.

      ELEGIAC STANZAS

BY MRS. CORNWELL BARON WILSON

      Why mourn we for her, who in Spring's tender bloom,

      And the sweet blush of womanhood, quitted life's sphere?

      Why weep we for her? Thro' the gates of the tomb

      She has pass'd to the regions undimm'd by a tear!

      To the spirits' far land in the mansions above,

      Unsullied, thus early her soul wing'd its flight;

      While she bask'd in the beams of affection and love,

      And knew not the clouds that oft shadow their light!

      Fate's hand pluck'd the bud ere it blossom'd to fame,

      No withering canker its leaflets had known;

      The ministering angels her fellowship claim,

      And rejoice o'er a spirit as pure as their own!

      While she knew but life's purer and tenderer ties,

      The guardian who watches life's path from our birth

      Call'd home the bright being Heav'n form'd for the skies

      Ere its bloom had been ting'd by the follies of earth!

      Alas! while the light of her young spirit's flame

      Shone a day-star of Hope to illumine us here,

      The messenger-seraph too suddenly came,

      And bore his bright charge to her own native sphere!

      Yet mourn not for her, who, in Spring's tender bloom,

      Has made life a desert to those left behind;

      Like the rose-leaf, tho' wither'd, still yielding perfume,

      In our hearts, ever fragrant, her memory is shrin'd!

      FICTIONS OF THE MIDDLE AGES

BY DELTATHE BUTTERFLY BISHOP

      Amongst the numerous grievances complained of, during the reigns of the Anglo-Norman sovereigns, none gave more uneasiness than the inhuman severity of the forest-laws; they disgusted those nobles not in the confidence of the monarch, oppressed the people, and impoverished the country.

      The privilege of hunting in the royal forests was confined to the king and his favourites, who spent the greater portion of their time, not engaged in active warfare, in that diversion; many of them pursued wild beasts with greater fury than they did enemies of their country, and became as savage as the very brutes they hunted.

      The punishment for hunting or destroying game in royal forests, or other property belonging to the crown, was very severe: the offender was generally put to death; but, if he could afford to pay an enormous mulct to the king, the sentence was commuted either to dismemberment or tedious imprisonment.

      The propensity of the dignified clergy to follow secular pastimes, especially that of hunting, is well known: they were ambitious to surpass the laity in the number and splendid livery of their huntsmen, and to excel in making the woods resound with the echo of their bugles; many of them are recorded for their skill in the aristocratic and manly amusement of the chase. Few persons, however, either ecclesiastic or secular, equalled Peter de Roches, Bishop of Winchester, in his fondness for, and prowess in, the chase.

      Peter had spent the prime of his life as a soldier,1 and having rendered King John essential service in such capacity, that monarch conferred upon him the lucrative office of Bishop of Winchester, and he thenceforth became a curer of souls instead of a destroyer of bodies.

      Peter's appointment as a bishop afforded him ample time to devote to the fascinating employment of chasing the "full-acorned boar" and stealthy fox: he thought the hunter's shout, the winding notes of the clanging horn, and the joyous bark of the hounds, much sweeter music than the nasal chaunt of the drowsy monks.

      It happened one day that Peter, (who was, according to the Chronicle of Lanercost,2 a proud and worldly man, – as was too often the case with bishops of that period,) with a bugle dangling at his belt, and mounted upon a fiery steed, attended by a vast retinue of men, horses, and hounds, was in hot pursuit of a wary old fox; his courser, – more fleet than the mountain roe, scarce bruising the grass with his iron-shod hoofs, – like Bucephalus of Macedon, took fright at his own shadow, and became unmanageable; nor were all the skill and spur of the rider able to check his impetuous speed: the harder the bishop pulled, the more unruly became his steed; the bridle now suddenly snapped in twain, and the bishop was left to the fate that awaited him. Velocipede, for so the horse was called, now seemed exultingly to bound over the deepest ditches, and to clear the highest thorny-twining hedge with the greatest ease: nothing could moderate his foaming rage; he resembled more the far-famed Pegasus of Medusan blood, than the palfrey of a gentle bishop. The retinue, and eager hounds, notwithstanding their utmost endeavour to keep pace with their master, were left far behind.

      Peter, having no control over his flying barbary, awaited with truly apostolic calmness and gravity the issue of his wondrous ride, seriously expecting every minute a broken neck or leg; or, perchance, to have his preaching spoilt by the dislocation of a jaw-bone. – Such thoughts will frequently obtrude themselves into the minds of men encompassed with similar difficulties, let their presence of mind be never so great.

      After

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