"Really, the man's not such a monster as I thought him," Nelly reflected, rather pleased with this clumsy attempt at wit. "Get the pipes and tobacco, Jonas. Won't you take anything?" she said to Frank; adding in a whisper, "Do as I tell you, and I'll set you free."

The young man replied by a slight gesture that he understood her. As Jonas brought the materials for smoking, the sound of a fiddle was heard outside.

"Here they come! here they come!" the landlord cried, clapping his hands.

"Who come?" Frank inquired, raising his head.

"The Jury of Bachelors and Maidens to decide upon our claim to the Flitch," Nettlebed replied. "Come along, Nelly."

And they both flew to the door, while all the household, attracted by the sound, made their appearance-some from one place, some from another, pretty Peggy, Tom Tapster, Carroty Dick, and even the fat cook from the kitchen.

VI.

THE JURY OF BACHELORS AND MAIDENS; AND WHAT THEY DID. SIX Bachelors and Six Maidens!

Hand in hand they enter the house, and as each pair crosses the threshold they salute the host and hostess, who welcome them with extraordinary heartiness. Jonas almost overacts his part; he is so much excited. The Youths do credit to the steward's selection. All are tolerably good-looking all dressed alike in green square cut coats, blue stockings, shoes and buckles. The Maidens are the flower of the village. Not a plain face; not a bad figure among them. Pretty girls all. Very prettily dressed, too. And all alike, as in the case of the Bachelors. Fly caps with pink ribands; hair in little curls round the brow, and clubbed behind; velvet bands encircling the throat; pink tucked-up gowns, open in front, so as to display through the crossed ribands the white stomachers beneath; scarlet petticoats; blue stockings and high-heeled shoes; ankles generally very neat; and waists very trim.

The fiddlers come in, too, playing a lively air; and there are a little piper, and a fat man with a bassoon, as accompaniments.

A crowd of neighbours, of both sexes, attracted by the music and the sight, flock in after them. All are cordially welcomed by the host and hostess; and some confusion ensues for a few moments, during which the bailiffs, though alive to what is going on, look sharply after their prisoner. When it becomes known that Frank Woodbine has been arrested, great sympathy is manifested for him by the whole assemblage; the men accusing the steward of harshness; and the women patting Frank on the back, bidding him not mind; shaking their hands at the bailiffs, and threatening to tear their faces.

But Frank does seem to mind it a great deal. The merriment around him, in which he has no share, makes him still more sad and gloomy.

As to the bailiffs, they express their contempt of the opprobrious epithets applied to them, and the menaces of the ladies, by smoking their pipes very tranquilly, and sipping their brandy-and-water, occasionally proffering the glass to the more infuriated of their assailants, which, of course, is indignantly rejected.

Hats off! The Bachelors draw up in a line. So do the Maidens. The

music ceases. The host and hostess take hands, and advance towards them as if inviting them to a dance: but it is not for that purpose. They are about to answer the interrogations of the Jury.

The questions are very precise, corresponding with the formula of the Oath. They are glibly answered both by Jonas and Nelly. Never were couple so united and happy. The endearments, in which they indulge, would prove it to the satisfaction of any Jury whatever; however sceptical they might be to begin with.

The council of twelve consult together; and the Bachelors put their heads so close to the Maidens, that their wigs brush their cheeks, and tickle their ears. The twelve appear quite convinced by what they have

heard; and seen. "But this is only a preliminary inquiry," Simon Appleyard, the foreman, says. "Three days have yet to run before the full term; a Twelvemonth and a Day; required by the Charter will have expired. And may yet forfeit your claim."

you

"Not the least chance of it," Jonas replies, embracing his wife anew. "Not the least," she adds, returning his caress.

"Master don't say a word about the Mistletoe Bough," Carroty Dick observes, in a whisper to Peggy.

"Hold your tongue, dunderhead," the discreet chambermaid replies. "On the fourth day from this, we shall renew our inquiries," the foreman pursues; "and we must then put you upon oath, and if we find all satisfactory, as we trust it may be, we will give you our certificate to the steward; who will lay it before the Lord of the Manor; who, if he sees nothing against it, will grant your claim."

"Huzza!" Jonas exclaims. And the crowd echo the shout, till the old roof echoes with their joyous vociferations.

Then comes Tom Tapster bearing a large punch-bowl, and places it on the table in the midst of them. Nelly and Peggy bring glasses; and the fat cook brings the minced pies and the plum cake. Jonas seizes the ladle, and begins to dispense the fragrant beverage. The Maidens are first served, and the Bachelors wait upon them. The punch is so hot, that it scalds their mouths; but they drink it nevertheless. The Bachelors are helped next, and as they pledge their partners they make soft speeches about the probability of obtaining the Flitch, in their turn.

Then comes everybody's turn; and Jonas for some minutes is actively engaged in supplying the wants of the thirsty crowd who besiege the table. Peggy and the others hand about the cake and the minced pies, and the pretty chambermaid comes in for her share of admiration from the young fellows; so much so that Carroty Dick begins to be jealous. Everybody, at length, is helped; even the musicians.

Nelly has taken care of the bailiffs, and given each of them a full tumbler. Isaacson makes her a polite speech, and Latcham says ditto to it. While pretending to listen to them, Nelly hazards a whisper to Frank.

The punch speedily does its work, and everybody begins to laugh and talk loudly. There is a wonderful clatter of voices. The musicians strike up the prelude to a jig; and in a twinkling the large table is carried off, and the room cleared for a dance. No difficulty in finding partners. The Bachelors have got theirs already, and they lead off. There is a contest for pretty Peggy's hand; and Carroty Dick is furious at losing

her, and wants to fight his rival. But he is only laughed at. Jonas takes a turn with his wife, but the speed is too great for him, and he soon loses wind, and gives in, being fairly blown.

There is a great shout. Simon Appleyard discovers the Mistletoe Bough, and as he whisks round in the dance, he draws his partner under it. The damsel is coy, but she cannot escape. Another couple follows-another, and another, and another! Fine fun it seems, for there is nothing but giggling and laughter. Peggy finds herself there again, and Dick tears his red locks. Even the fat cook is kissed; and is so overcome she can scarcely get out of the recess.

While the merriment is at its height, Nelly comes up to Frank and proposes to him to take part in the dance. At first he declines, but Nelly won't take "No." The bailiffs are grown quite bland under the mellowing influence of the punch, and throw no obstacle in the way. Isaacson wants to dance with her himself; but to this his partner objects; though Nelly, we fancy, would scarcely have consented.

Frank yields to her entreaties, and they stand up together; the bailiffs, with their pipes, moving towards the door as a precautionary measure.

This arrangement takes Jonas by surprise; and he does not altogether approve of it; but he won't interfere. So he finishes the glass of punch with which he has been recruiting himself after his fatigues, and looks on. The couples go round merrily. Jonas is pleased to observe that Frank avoids the Mistletoe, though he passes close by it. The music plays faster and faster-so fast, the dancers can hardly keep pace with it.

Are

Eh day! What's all this? Jonas can scarcely believe his eyes. his wife and Frank going up-stairs? Yes, and very quickly too. They are laughing loudly all the time. And everybody else laughs too; except Jonas-and the bailiffs. The latter laugh on the wrong side of their mouths, for they perceive they are tricked.

Jonas rushes forward: so do the bailiffs. But the staircase is invested by a compact crowd. All the couples have stopped there; and the minions of the law cannot force a passage. Simon Appleyard and the Bachelors drive them back.

Frank and his companion watch the futile efforts of their pursuers from the gallery above, and, after laughing heartily at them for a moment or two-the crowd beneath joining their merriment-they disappear down the dark corridor.

Jonas is lost in bewilderment, and thinks he must be in a disagreeable dream. But the bailiffs rouse him up by clapping him on the shoulder, and telling him they hold him responsible for the prisoner's evasion. The act of his wife is his own act. He must pay the debt himself. He must come down with two hundred pounds.

Jonas looks distracted. But an idea suddenly strikes him.

"Come with me, gem'men, and you shall have him yet," he cries. "I know where she'll let him out. It's a private door in the garden.

You may catch him before he gets off."

And he is hurrying out of the house, when Simon Appleyard's outstretched leg trips him up, and the bailiffs, who are following close after, tumble over him.

The trio regain their feet as soon as they can, and set off towards the garden, attended by the majority of the assemblage, many of whom feel disposed to attempt a rescue, in case the fugitive should be captured.

THE BIRTH OF 1853.

BY NICHOLAS MICHELL.

TOLL for the funeral of the old dead Year,
Laid in the grave of the eternal past!
But mourn we not its death with fruitless tear,

For time will fleet-e'en worlds must fade at last;
Memory upon its tomb will scatter flowers,
And Hope shall wear a smile for coming hours.
And yet our hearts must bleed, O Year! to think
How many of the gifted, loved, and great,

Thy brief reign snatched from life; what thousands drink
Bereavement's cup! what hearths are desolate!
Cypress-wreathed Genius lifts his tearful eyes,
And crested Valour droops her head, and sighs.
Two stand conspicuous 'mid the summoned train;
How mourned at Castaly th' Aönian Nine,

When ceased our warm Anacreon's matchless strain-
Song sweet as flowers that hands of fairies twine;
A shade fell dark on Erin's saddened shore;
A star went out when closed the eye of Moore.
And he, the mighty chief, our tower of pride,

Who conquered every foe save conquering death,
Hath joined th' immortals; deep a Nation sighed,

Its million tears bedewing Glory's wreath!
Yet such ne'er die; lives on, beams on the same,
Through termless years, the sunlight of their fame.
But fare thee well, dead Year! thy work is done;

Rest with the Ages; History guards thy sleep;
Thy young successor hath its course begun,

Bounding to life-gay billow on Time's deep:
Ring in its birth! look welcome, ye clear skies!
Smile off despondency, and banish sighs.

Come, bright-eyed Hope, and rock its cradle-bed,
Pointing with rosy hand to happy hours!

Health, bring thy bloom! and Virtue, sunshine shed!
Come, Plenty, with thy horn, and scatter flowers!
Love, dance with Peace! each heaven-born guest be here,
To crown the birthday of our infant year!
What lies before us? seek not to unfold;

Oh! happy blindness to our future fate!

Could we but pierce the veil, what woes untold
Might make a torture of this mundane state!
Look forward, trusting the unknown will be
Fraught with high fortune, and delight to thee.
Yes, let the future lower, the past be sad,

The brave of heart will ne'er despond or quail;
With clouds and snows the mountain-peak is clad,
But "will" the ascent, your footstep shall not fail,
Courage the talisman on life's rough road,
Truth leading still to Honour's bright abode.
But lo! the year is born, the bells are ringing
Their jubilee on midnight's dusky air;

'Tis fancy, but the very stars seem singing,

And bidding man trust Heaven, and ne'er despair;
The dove of promise bears an olive bough;
God speed us on the path we enter now!

OUR BOARDING-HOUSE IN BRUSSELS.

BY DUDLEY COSTELLO.

"THE Château de Schaerbeck," said the advertisement which lured me within its walls, "is delightfully situated on the Boulevard de Louvain, in the most eligible part of Brussels. It is contiguous to the Royal Palaces and Park, almost adjoins the Botanic Garden, and is within an easy distance of the Northern Railway, which communicates directly with England, Holland, and the whole of Germany. Health, pleasure, and the facilities of travel, are thus combined by the inmates of the Château de Schaerbeck, owing to this fortunate réunion of advantageous circumstances. Nor is the society within the Château less attractive than the elements which constitute its external locality; for, while the proprietors adhere rigidly to their rule of receiving no one whose references will not bear the strictest scrutiny,―exactitude of morals, and the most upright conduct being the basis on which they have ever proceeded, — they are incessant in their exertions to throw a charm around the domestic life which they offer to the solitary, the homeless, and the blasé. The terms of this desirable establishment are, happily, within the reach of the most moderate income, and, at the same time, place at the disposal of the lonely opulent resources never yet exploités on the continent of EuAn elaboration of details is not the province of this advertisement, which addresses itself alike to the sensitive invalid, the buoyant pleasureseeker, the morbidly-acute sufferer, and the gay companion of the social hour, all of whom will find a soothing and a cheerful home at the Château de Schaerbeck."

rope.

I had been for some months occupied in recruiting my health at the Baths of Ems, when this advertisement, which appeared in Galignani's newspaper, fell in my way. My physical strength was almost wholly restored, but I suppose a long course of saline waters and donkey-riding must have considerably weakened my mental energies, for, as I read it over, I fancied I perfectly understood it,-fancied that the Château de Schaerbeck was exactly the place to suit me,-and fancied, moreover, that its exemplary proprietors and interesting inmates were the very people I had been looking for-unsuccessfully-all my life.

I accordingly wrote to know if I could be accommodated with an apartment in this phoenix of boarding-houses, sent an unexceptionable reference, and in due course of post received an answer informing me that one vacancy existed at that moment," which was "open for my reception."

The letter was signed "Richard Bolter," and that the minds of his correspondents might be perfectly at ease, there followed this sentence, by way of appendix.

"R. B. is an Englishman, long resident in Brussels, accustomed to the wants and wishes of his countrymen, and desiring nothing more than the pleasure of giving that satisfaction which has been experienced by thousands."

A few days after the receipt of Mr. Bolter's reply, I was disgorged from the train which conveyed me from Cologne to Brussels, and a "Favourite" conveyed me to the Château de Schaerbeck, whose exterior certainly justified the eulogium bestowed upon it in the advertisement.