kicked to atoms through the pole breaking, when furioslyn dashing down hill; all now with me were staid and grave; and manifold opportunities occurred for studying the different characters I was constantly engaged in conveying to divers fashionable cemeteries in the vicinity of the metroplis. Much misery, and more hypocricy, have been my temporary tenants; but time is not given to recount the endless variety of feeling predominating in the bosoms of the multitudinous occupants of my dismal anterior. The theme is too melancholy to be treated lightly, and the brief period we may remain together is rapidly drawing to a close. Quiet and regular though my occupations were, the hand of time, and weight of the mourners' bodies, pressed heavily on my springs; my master, therefore, deeming the possibility of a break down taking place, when employed on my powerful duties as in no degree unlikely to occur, divested my body of its black draperies and cushions; and, for the last time, I was ticketed, "for sale." I knew I could not maintain a gentlemanly appearance much longer; and my master knew it likewise. An open shed was now the only shelter offered to my once emblazoned panels. One by one, my once praiseworthy qualities forsook me. I grew restless and unsteady; I sunk from my pristine high estate; I dwindled into a lazy vehicle: the very tyres manifested a repugnance to my crumbling wheels; while my spokes, as if anxious for liberation, shook with incurable paralysis within their decayed sockets. Straw was insultingly thrust upon me-I was among the fallen. Yes, truth will out -I was now a hackney coach, and my number was 100. What tongue can tell the degradations I have since that time endured? -the vile description of persons who familiarly have called me -the wretches who have sat in me. Never, oh! never can this misery be told. Daily I take my stand in the same dull street, and nightly I am driven to the minor theatres-to oyster shops -to desperation. One day, when empty and unoccupied, I was hailed by two police officers, bearing between them a prisoner. It was the seducer of my second, and ill-fated mistress; a first crime had done its usual work, it had prepared his mind for a second, and now the destroyer had perpetrated a deed of iniquity, which, although in the eyes of God and man, fell far short in sin when compared with his prior abasement; yet was it made cognizable by the law, while the perpetrater of the greater evil might-had that been the only blot on his escutcheon-have raised his unblushing front in defiance of the opprobrium or censure of the whole world itself. Months passed away, and I am becoming more and more en feebled. The journeys and burdens which in the joyous days of my happy youth I was wont to perform, and carry without the slightest exertion, wholly free from anticipation of the numerous dangers which in a crowded thoroughfare beset me on every side-those very excursions were undertaken with aversion, and performed with incredible fatigue, and frequently with disgust, while my fragile limbs shaking at every jolt, or an uneven stone encountered, bore testimony to the shattered statǝ of my frame. Late hours had their effect on me as well as on men, yet so imperative is habit, and, in some cases, so inordinate is pride, that I had rather ramble at midnight through the heavy, deserted streets of the metropolis than have sought companionship with the Lord Mayor's coach, even though it had proffered me a welcome in its warm and comfortable house. Frequently, ah! how frequently, have I tottered along during the long, cold nights, my head shaking, and threatening to separate at every motion I encountered, while my wheels rolled heavily, with difficulty retaining their axles. It was on a similar occasion, while slowly sauntering up the Haymarket, one wet, drizzling night, or rather morning, for it was past two o'clock, I was called by a female, who demanded to be driven home. She was decked in tattered and tawdry finery, and, what with fatigue, and recent indulgence in something more potent than water, she exhibited a wretched and most disgusting specimen of her sex. Faint, yet how faint, were the traces of beauty discernable on that pallid face; yet it was impossible I could be mistaken in the supposition that I had seen her before, for, on stepping up my now crazy steps, the full glare of the street-lamp fell upon her cheeks, and I beheld my Brighton mistress, the deceived and the betrayed. What had been the sufferings of the suffering wife-the innocent victim of her husband's cruelty, when supported by conscious rectitude-compared with what I then looked on? But I will not harrow up feelings by describing the degraded guilt, the hopeless anguish, that was then the lot of that lost girl. Suffice it to say, I felt relief when she quitted me at her own threshold, and, for my part, I never saw her more. I am now on my last spokes. I broke down, Thursday week, in the Strand, and dislocated the shoulder of a rich old maid. I cannot help thinking she deserved the visitation, for, as she stepped into me in Oxford-street, she exclaimed, loud enough to be heard by all neighbouring pedestrians, "Dear me, how dirty! I never was in a hackney conveyance before;" though I well remember having frequently been favoured with her : company. A medical gentleman happened to be passing at the moment of our mishap: it was my old Esculapian master. He set the limb and so skilfully did he manage his patient that it is more than probable he will be richly rewarded, which recompense, I trust, will shoulder him into a good property at last. "Two evenings since, I was the bearer of a real party of pleasure to Astley's, a bride and bridegroom, with the mother of the bride. It was not difficult to recognize the widow of the old rector, whose thin daughter-by the bye, she is not so nowhad the good luck to marry the only son of a wealthy, though humble, pair." The voice suddenly ceased; I awoke; the door opened; the steps were let down; I paid the coachman double the amount of his fare: and in future, whenever I stand in need of a Jarvey, I shall certainly make a point of calling for number 100, if, indeed, it has not been broken up and converted into firewood long since, to make room for its more modern and less unwieldly successors. IRISH BALLAD. THE DEAD DAUGHTER. BY MRS. CRAWFORD. The moon is shining brightly, To soothe a father's sorrows, And left a lover, darling! I saw thy young bloom wither, O Erin! land of sorrow! At thy life-destroying shrine ! JUDON'S GROUND. Br C. A. M. W., AUTHORESS OF "C EVANGEL THE ARTIST," ETC., ETC. -time consecrates; And what is grey with age becomes religion." -He who binds His soul to knowledge, steals the key of heaven; May hang within his reach, and when with thirst "I did hear you talk, far above singing! After you were gone, I grew acquainted with my heart, Alas! I found it love." THOSE who possess veneration for ancient things, are well acquainted, if not personally, at least by description, with the many beautiful ruins of old abbeys, castles, and monastic remains dispersed about our land; with the noble mansions of past centuries, such as Penshurst, Haddon Hall, and a hundred others equally noted and interesting. But there are obscure and un known dwellings, hidden in common villages, in corners and by-places, which might prove curious to the antiquary, were details of their history and vicinity explored. In a straggling, and by no means picturesque village, situated near a fine river flowing through a richly wooded country, there is still to be seen a tall grey house, containing about twenty apartments; ten of which are spacious and lofty, the remainder being of more moderate dimensions. The windows are ill-placed, small, and lattice-paned; the carved oak staircase, wide and grand; the passages narrow, and the rooms leading in and out of each other, until a stranger might be fairly puzzled and entangled in the labyrinth. The entrance door of this dwelling is extremely massive, and enters directly from the heart of the principal village thoroughfare; it has a dismal front aspect, whereon the sun never rests, no tree or refreshment of any kind relieving the blank appearance of the damp looking walls, with their queer little holes for windows; it is an uninteresting domicile to the mere cursory passer by, and few indeed do pass that way, for the village leads to nowhere in particular, and is quite an out-of-the-way place. Once, so tradition sayeth, it was a market town, and the road before this old house passed another way, much further off; fields and gardens had been before it, even as at the present time they exist behind; there it has a sunny aspect, and the orchard trees are huge and lichen-covered, bounding extensive and quaintly fashioned gardens; an old battered stone cross is still to be seen in the midst, standing by a fountain; there is a rude inscription on this cross, and it is called, "Judon's Fountain," and the house and its surrounding pleasant adjuncts, still bear the name of "Judon's Ground." There is an authenticated, though fanciful tale attached to this domain, which probably not a dozen persons ever heard. A few years ago a Christmas party were assembled beneath the hospitable roof, and the animated hostess, a charming old lady of seventy-five, produced credentials and manuscripts musty and moth-eaten, to certify that which she related. The narrative was suggested by an interlude varying the domestic harmonies, of quizzing a young lady present as a "Blue Stocking," she having translated a Latin inscription, and deciphered the letters on "Judon's Fountain." She vehemently disclaimed the title, but her doom was inevitable; so the joke and the laugh went round, and the conversation turned from personal bantering to general discussion. Antiquities were descanted on; from the stone cross in the garden, they came to the house, from the house to its by-gone history, from the history to their kind hostess, and she to her good oak chest. By dint of memory, spelling |