thus he had become so popular that to take direct measures against him was out of the question.

The steward, accordingly, brought a dozen physicians to examine Sir Habeas. After consultation, they reported that he was in a very bad way, and ought not, on any account, to be allowed to stir out for several months. Fortified with this authority, the parish officers put him to bed, closed his windows, and barred his doors. They paid him every attention, and from time to time issued bulletins of his health. The steward never spoke of him without declaring that he was the best gentleman in the world; but excellent care was taken that he should never stir out of doors.

When this obstacle was removed, the 'Squire and the steward kept the parish in excellent order; flogged this man, sent that man to the stocks, and pushed forward the law-suit with a noble disregard of expense. They were, however, wanting either in skill or in fortune And every thing went against them after their antagonists had begun to employ Solicitor Nap.

Who does not know the name of Solicitor Nap? At what ale-house is not his behaviour discussed? In what print-shop is not his picture seen? Yet how little truth has been said about him! Some people hold that he used to give laudanum by pints to his sick clerks for his amusement. Others, whose number has very much increased since he was killed by the gaol distemper, conceive that he was the very model of honour and good-nature. I shall try to tell the truth about him.

He was assuredly an excellent solicitor. In his way he never was surpassed. As soon as the parish began to employ him, their cause took a turn. In a very little time they were successful; and Nap became rich. He now set up for a gentleman; took possession of the old manor-house; got into the commission of the peace, and affected to be on a par with the best of the county. He governed the vestries as absolutely as the old family had done. Yet, to give him his due, he managed things with far more discretion than either Sir Lewis or the rioters who had pulled the Lords of the Manor down. He kept his servants in tolerable order. He removed the steel-traps from the highways and the corners of the streets. He still left a few indeed in the more exposed parts of his premises; and set up a board announcing that traps and spring guns were set in his grounds. He brought the poor parson back to the parish; and, though he did not enable him to keep a fine house and a coach as formerly, he settled

him in a snug little cottage, and allowed him a pleasant padnag. He whitewashed the church again; and put the stocks, which had been much wanted of late, into good repair.

With the neighbouring gentry, however, he was no favourite. He was crafty and litigious. He cared nothing for right, if he could raise a point of law against them. He pounded their cattle, broke their hedges, and seduced their tenants from them. He almost ruined Lord Cæsar with actions, in every one of which he was successful. Von Blunderbussen went to law with him for an alleged trespass, but was cast, and almost ruined by the costs of suit. He next took a fancy to the seat of Squire Don, who was, to say the truth, little better than an idiot. He asked the poor dupe to dinner, and then threatened to have him tossed in a blanket unless he would make over his estates to him. The poor Squire signed and sealed a deed by which the property was assigned to Joe, a brother of Nap's, in trust for and to the use of Nap himself. The tenants, however, stood out. They maintained that the estate was entailed, and refused to pay rents to the new landlord; and in this refusal they were stoutly supported by the people in St. George's.

About the same time Nap took it into his head to match with quality, and nothing would serve him but one of the Miss Germains. Lord Cæsar swore like a trooper; but there was no help for it. Nap had twice put executions in his principal residence; and had refused to discharge the latter of the two, till he had extorted a bond from his Lordship, which compelled him to comply.

T. M.

THE END OF THE FIRST PART.

And yet, fair cousin, do not deem

That all is false which poets tell Of Passion's first and dearest dream, Of haunted spot, and silent spell, Of long low musing, such as suits

The terrace on your own dark hill, Of whispers which are sweet as lutes,

And silence which is sweeter still; Believe, believe,-for May shall pass,

And summer sun and winter shower Shall dim the freshness of the grass,

And mar the fragrance of the flower,

Believe it all, whate'er you hear

Of plighted vow, and treasured token, And hues which only once appear,

And words which only once are spoken, And prayers whose natural voice is song,

And schemes that die in wild endeavour, And tears so pleasant, you will long

To weep such pleasant tears for ever. Believe it all, believe it all!

Oh! Virtue's frown is all divine; And Folly hides his happy thrall

In sneers as cold and false as mine; And Reason prates of wrong and right,

And marvels hearts can break or bleed, And flings on all that's warm and bright The winter of his icy creed;

But when the soul has ceased to glow,

And years and cares are coming fast, There's nothing like young love !-no, no! There's nothing like young love at last!

The Convent of St. Ursula

Has been in a marvellous fright to-day ;
The Nuns are all in a terrible pother
Scolding and screaming at one another;
Two or three pale, and two or three red,
Two or three frightened to death in bed,
Two or three waging a wordy war

With the wide-eared Saints of the Calendar.
Beads and lies have both been told,

Tempers are hot, and dishes are cold;
Celandine rends her last new veil,
Leonore babbles of horns and tail;
Celandine proses of songs and slips,
Violette blushes and bites her lips:
Oh! what is the matter, the matter to-day,

With the Convent of St. Ursula ?

But the Abbess has made the chiefest din,
And cried the loudest cry;

She has pinned her cap with a crooked pin,
And talked of Satan and of sin,

And set her coif awry;
And she can never quiet be;

But ever since the Matins,

In gallery and scullery,

And kitchen and refectory,

She tramps it in her pattens;

Oh! what is the matter, the matter to-day

With the Abbess of St. Ursula ?

Thrice in the silence of eventime
A desperate foot has dared to climb
Over the Convent gate;

Thrice a venturous voice and lute

Have dared to wake their amorous suit,
Among the convent flowers and fruit,
Abominably late:

And thrice, the Beldames know it well,
From out the lattice of her cell,

To listen to that murmured measure

Of life, and love, and hope, and pleasure,

With throbbing heart and eyelid wet,

Hath leaned the novice Violette;

And oh! you may tell from her mournful gaze,
Her vision hath been of those dear days,

When happily o'er the quiet lawn,

Bright with the dew's most heavenly sprinkles, She scared the pheasant, and chased the fawn,

Till a smile came o'er her father's wrinkles,

Or stood beside that water fair,

Where moonlight slept with a ray so tender, That every star which glistened there,

Glistened, she thought, with a double splendour;