Whoso gathereth the mandrake, shall surely die;
Blood for blood is his destiny.

Some who have plucked it have died with groans,
Like to the mandrake's expiring moans;
Some have died raving, and some beside-
With penitent prayers- but all have died.

Jesu! save us, by night and day!
From the terrible death of mandragora!
Euthanasy!

"A queer chant that," said Zoroaster, coughing loudly, in

token of disapprobation.

"Not much to my taste," quoth the knight of Malta. like something more sprightly in Canterbury."

"We

expected from a muse, revelling like a ghoul in graves and sepulchres,) it is an especial favourite. But none have plunged so deeply into the subject as Sir Thomas Browne. He tears up the fable root and branch. Concerning the danger ensuing from eradication of the mandrake, he thus writes: "The last assertion is, that there follows a hazard of life to them that pull it up, that some evil fate pursues them, and that they live not very long hereafter. Therefore the attempt hereof among the ancients was not in ordinary way; but, as Pliny informeth, when they intended to take up the root of this plant, they took the wind thereof, and with a sword describing three circles about it, they digged it up, looking toward the west. A conceit not only injurious urto truth and confutable by daily expe. rience, but somewhat derogatory unto the Providence of God; that is, not only to impose so destructive a quality on any plant, but to conceive a vegetable whose parts are so useful unto many, should, in the only taking up, prove mortal unto any. This were to introduce a second forbidden fruit, and enhance the first malediction, making it not only mortal for Adam to taste the one, but capital for his posterity to eradicate, or dig up the other."- Vulgar Errors, book ii. c. vi.

"Nor to mine," added Jerry ; "don't think it's likely to have an encore. 'Pon my soul, Dick, you must give us something yourself, or we shall never cry Euthanasy at the Triple Tree."

"With all my heart," replied Turpin, "you shall have— but what do I see, my friend Sir Luke? devil take my tongue, Luke Bradley I mean. What, ho! Luke-nay, nay, man, no shrinking-stand forward- I've a word or two to say to you. We must have a hob-a-nob glass together, for old acquaintance sake. Nay, no airs, man; dammee you're not a lord yet, nor a baronet either, though I do hold your title in my pocket; never look glum at me. It won't pay. I'm one of the canting crew now-no man shall sneer at me with impunity, eh, Zory? Ha, ha!-here's a glass of Nantz; we'll have a bottle of black strap when you are master of your own. Make ready there, you gut-scrapers, you shawm-shavers, I'll put your lungs in play for you, presently. In the mean time -charge, pals, charge - a toast, a toast! health and prosperity to Sir Luke Rookwood! I see you are surprised-this, gem'men, is Sir Luke Rookwood, somewhile Luke Bradley, heir to the house of that name, not ten miles distant from this. Say, shall we not drink a bumper to his health?" Astonishment prevailed amongst the crew. Luke himself had been taken by surprise. When Turpin discovered him at the door of the tent, and summoned him to appear, he reluctantly complied with the request; but when, in a half bantering vein, Dick began to rally him upon his pretensions, he would most gladly have retreated, had it been in his power. It was then too late. He felt he must stand the ordeal. Every eye was fixed upon him with a look of inquiry.

Zoroaster took his everlasting pipe from his mouth. "This ain't true, surely?" asked the perplexed Magus. "He has said it,” replied Luke; I may not deny it.” This was sufficient. There was a wild hubbub of delight amongst the crew, for Luke was a favourite with all.

"Sir Luke Rookwood!" cried Jerry Juniper, who liked a title as much as Tommy Moore is said to doat upon a lord"Upon my soul I sincerely congratulate you; devilish fortunate fellow. Always cursed unlucky myself. I could never find out my own father, unless it were one Monsieur des Capriolles, a French dancing master, and he never left any

thing behind him, that I could hear of, except a broken kit, and a hempen widow. Sir Luke Rookwood, we shall do ourselves the pleasure of drinking your health and prosperity."

Fresh bumpers, and immense cheering.

Silence being in a measure restored, Zoroaster claimed Turpin's promise of a song.

"True, true," replied Dick; "I have not forgotten it. Stand to your bows, my hearties."

Then who can name

So merry a game,

As the game of all games-high toby?

Believe me, there is not a game, my brave boys,
To compare with the game of high toby;

No rapture can equal the tobyman's joys,

To blue devils, blue plumbs 10 give the go-by;

And what if, at length, boys, he come to the crap! 11
Even rack punch has some bitter in it,

For the mare-with-three-legs 12, boys, I care not a rap,
'T will be over in less than a minute!

GRAND CHORUS.

Then hip, hurrah!

Fling care away!

Hurrah for the game of high toby!

"And now, pals," said Dick, who began to feel the influence of these morning cups, 66 I vote that we adjourn.

Believe me,

1 The moon. 2 Light. 3 Highwayman. 4 "Cherry-coloured. -black; there being black cherries as well as red." GROSE. 5 Sword. 6 Pistols. 7 Highway robbery. 8 Pocket-book. 9 Money, 10 Bullets. 11 The gallows, 12 Ditto.

I shall always bear in mind that I am a brother of your band. Sir Luke and I must have a little chat together, ere I take my leave. Adieu!"

And taking Luke by the arm, he walked out of the tent. Peter Bradley rose, and followed them.

At the door they found the dwarfish Grasshopper, with Black Bess. Rewarding the urchin for his trouble, and slipping the bridle of his mare over his hand, Turpin continued his walk over the green. For a few minutes he seemed to be lost in rumination.

"I tell you what, Sir Luke," said he, "I should like to do a generous thing, and make you a present of this bit of paper. But one ought not to throw away one's luck, you know there is a tide in the affairs of thieves, as the player coves say, which must be taken at the flood, or else- -no matter! Your old dad, Sir Piers, (God help him!) had the gingerbread, that I know; he was, as we say, a regular rhinocerical cull. You won't feel a few thousands, especially at starting; and besides there are two others, Rust and Wilder who row in the same boat with me, and must therefore come in for their share of the reg'lars. All this considered, you can't complain, I think, if I ask five thousand for it. That old harridan, Lady Rookwood, offered me nearly as much."

"I will not talk to you of fairness," said Luke; “I will not say that document belongs of right to me. It fell by accident into your hands. Having possessed yourself of it, I blame you not that you dispose of it to the best advantage. I must, perforce, agree to your terms."

"Oh no," replied Dick, "it's quite optional; Lady Rookwood will give as much, and make no mouths about it. So ho, lass! What makes Bess prick her ears in that fashion?-Ha! carriage wheels in the distance! that jade knows the sound as well as I do. I'll just see what it's like!—you will have ten minutes for reflection. Who knows if I may not have come in for a good thing here?"

At that instant a carriage passed the angle of a rock some three hundred yards distant, and was seen slowly ascending the hill side. Eager as a hawk after his quarry, Turpin dashed after it.

In vain the sexton, whom he nearly overthrew in his

career, called after him to halt. He sped like a bolt from the

bow.

"May the devil break his neck!" cried Peter, as he saw him dash through the brook: "could he not let them alone? "This must not be," said Luke: "know you whose carriage it is?"

"It is a shrine that holds the jewel that should be dearest in your eyes,” returned Peter; " haste, and arrest the spoiler's hand."

“Whom do you mean ?” asked Luke. "Eleanor Mowbray," replied Peter.

the rescue-away."

"She is there.

"Eleanor Mowbray !" echoed Luke—" and Sybil!. At this instant a pistol-shot was heard.

to

"Will you let murder be done, and upon your cousin?" cried Peter, with a bitter look. "You are not what I took you for."

Luke answered not, but, swift as a hound from the leash, darted in the direction of the carriage.

THE course of our tale returns now to Eleanor Mowbray. After she had parted from Ranulph Rookwood, and had watched him disappear beneath the arches of the church porch, her heart sank, and, drawing herself back within the carriage, she became a prey to the most poignant affliction. In vain she endeavoured to shake off this feeling of desolation. It would not be. Despair had taken possession of her; the magic fabric of delight melted away, or only gleamed to tantalise,