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first place he is very fat, and dresses something like an old clergymantight-fitting pantaloons and black coat and waistcoat

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"Post-boy! post-boy! I say. By heavens! I'll make you suffer for this!" exclaimed the impatient traveller.

"His height is about five feet seven-but the surest way to know him is by a prodigious bandage over his eye, and his perpetual boastings that he is a country gentleman and a justice of peace."

"Ha! ha! ha!" said Hardiman; "he must be an impudent rascal to talk of justice at all: but if he's a justice, it would seem, Sir, he's blind, too; and that's the exact way that every justice is painted I have ever seen in the Book of Emblems."

"Rascal!" repeated the voice from the outside; "you shall have three months of Brixton for your insolence. I'll come and fetch you myself."

"The traveller seems impatient," remarked Harry.

"Oh! it won't do him any harm," said Hardiman; "if he's such an ass as not to have a pull at the tankard 'tis too much of a joke if he won't let the poor postilion have a drop."

A noise of the letting down of steps was now heard, and the door opened, and Mr. Dingle hurried angrily into the room.

"You insolent scoundrel!" he began clenching his fist at the philosophical postilion, who continued very deliberately to emit huge wreaths of smoke from each corner of his mouth alternately-" I'll teach you to disobey a magistrate of twenty-five years' standing."

""Tis he, by heavens !-Greenacre himself!" whispered Harry to the wondering circle, and withdrawing himself into a dark corner of the apartment.

"Now then, boys, for five hundred pounds," whispered Morris, stringing himself up for a rush on the murderer; "let us all help, and divide the spoil. Three of us can manage him, and that will be a good haul for each of us."

"Wait a while and let us be sure of our man," hinted Hardiman, dubiously.

Why, what's the use of waiting?-everything is exact; heightdress-and did not you hear him talk of being a magistrate at the very first words he spoke?"

In the mean time the postilion's silence added tenfold fury to the traveller's indignation.


Vagabond! I will get you hanged for this misdemeanour! You have hitherto aided me in my escape

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"Hear him," whispered Morris, "he confesses he has escaped." "I should not wonder if that bloodhound of the law were after me at this moment

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"Hear! hear! shall we rush on him now?" said Morris, drawing near. "And now that I have got out of his clutches I wish to keep free from him."

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Yes, Sir," said the postilion, "if you can cure Bob the Tinker, my off-hand horse, of the staggers, there would be some use talking."

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Staggers, rascal? Here, don't you see what an eye I've got?" "Not so bad as the one he gave the poor woman with the Billy-roller," whispered Hardiman.

But Morris now resolved to make sure of the reward, and, touching Mr. Dingle on the shoulder, said, "Come, come, old man, take it quietly here we are three of us, and you don't move a peg from this."

"How, fellows!" exclaimed the gentleman, in surprise; "are you robbers or murderers ?"

"There's only one murderer here, that I know of," said old Morris; "and you know who that is as well as I can tell you. What name do you call yourself, you ruffian ?"

"This to me!-ruffian to me !-a gentleman-a magistrate of a quarter of a century !"

"Humbug!" said Hardiman, "let us have no more jaw, but surrender at once; we know who you are."

"I am John Theodosius Dingle, Esquire, of Dingleton Hall. What, then ?"

Why, that you will probably soon change your name to John Dangle, Esquire, of Tyburn Tree-that's all," said Hardiman. "What do you say to that, Mr. Greenacre?"

"Greenacre!" exclaimed Mr. Dingle: "what do you mean ?—my

name is not Greenacre."

"Oh! Wiseacre will do as well, and anybody could swear you are that. Are you not ashamed of yourself, you detestable villain? Come, off with him to Salisbury gaol."

"Sir! gentlemen!" exclaimed Mr. Dingle; "you are on dangerous ground-you shall be prosecuted for an illegal arrest as sure as I am chairman of quarter-sessions."

"Off! off into the chaise with him!"

"Gentlemen, there is a lady in the chaise-touch me at your peril." "A lady!" whistled Hardiman; "what a hoary-headed wretch!he will murder her to a certainty, and carry her head on his knee. Come, Sir, you don't budge. Mitchell, help us to carry this villain into the carriage, and tell the post-boy to make all speed into Salisbury."

Saying this, the whole party laid violent hands on Mr. Dingle, and hurried him to the door; but great was the surprise of the zealous performers, when they perceived that, in the midst of the squabble, the chaise, the lawyer, and the postilion, had all disappeared.

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"He is gone before us," exclaimed Morris, in despair, to give information, and claim the reward! All that we can do is to keep the miscreant here till the morning, and then take him on in a cart. the reward! the reward!-oh, that cunning counsellor! he has got the reward!"


And true enough it was that the counsellor had got the reward; but what the reward consisted in may be best seen by quoting a notice that appeared in a few days in the "Morning Post :"

"Married: Harry Neville, Esq., of the Inner Temple, eldest son of General Sir H. Neville, to Fanny, only child of J. T. Dingle, Esq., of Dingleton Hall. The bridegroom owes the consent of Mr. Dingle to his zeal in extricating the old gentleman from an embarrassment into which he was thrown by the mistake of some rustics, near Salisbury. We are in possession of all the particulars, but from obvious motives refrain from making them public.'

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Oh! this is the day! Huzza! Huzza!

'Tis the ninth of November-it should have been May. My aunt and my sisters have taken a room,

Only two doors down Bread-street, to stay the whole day;
And as there's no tempest, and nothing but gloom,
I think we've a chance to see 'squire and groom,
And the horse, and the mayor, and the aldermen gay,
And the bran new police to keep people at bay,
To welcome the sweet creature, all in her bloom,
Riding jewell'd to dine, without any dismay,
In the hall of her city-with nothing to pay!

It is ten-it is ten-we have been here since eight,
In a neat double fly -a rehearse of the great,
And I feel so dumb-fluster'd-so very elate,

That I can't, for the soul of me, drink, eat, or prate.
We've look'd side-ways two hours right into Cheapside,
With mouths full of joy, yet exceedingly wide;

But still we're deplorably likely to wait,

For the people don't press, and there's no human tide Flowing on towards Guildhall, heaving this and that side;

But a twopenny-postman, in double-knock state,

Has just called at Turtle and Lomas's gate;
And three servant-maids, up uncommonly late,
Are all that, in Bread-street, are instinct with Fate!

It's eleven-eleven! an hour, thank Heaven,
Is gone to the ghosts of past hours! and the leaven
Of gingerbread-uniforms lightens the even,
Dull, dingy, thick, city mass'd dress of the crowd—
Human mites run about very busy and loud;
And a boy in a lamp-post (all seated since seven,
And easy as far as the rim has allow'd),

Shouts at intervals, like a sea-lad from the shroud.
All in a front-window I see Mrs. Beaven,
And her three satin-daughters, all flowered and given
To fal-lals and feathers-I'm glad I've not bowed
To the odious Cheapsiders, so forward and proud.

Twelve-twelve by the clock-Oh! it seems like a week-
I have shouted already so much, I can't speak

In Lavinia's sweet ear; but that Venus, so meek,
Has listened so long to the noise of the treat,

That she's deaf as the post at the top of the street;
And my aunt's neck is fixed all one way with a creak :-
But two horsemen are gone by alarmingly fleet,
As though they were serjeants, run from their beat;
I hope it's no put off from this to next week;
No, it's only a message the Lord Mayor to greet,
To say that Sir Frederick Roe's in the suite-
(Sir Frederick, you know, is the very first beak
Of this mighty metropolis-so it is meet!)

It is one-now they come-No, they don't-what a shout! There are guns! Well, it must be! Do look what a rout! The shiny police hats I watch in and out;

And fat, fainting wives forget all it's about.

Guns again!-guns again! She is here!-she's not far!
She's near Everington's-No! she's not through Temple Bar.
But Lord Cowan's the cause of this terrible flout,
For he's scouring the Thames in a watery car,
After counting the nails-a numerical bout-
And he by the wharfs shines the wonderful star.
I wish he'd not flurry us thus above par,
For the pageant we want, as the angler the trout.

It is half after two, I can hear by St. Paul's,
Though I hardly can hear the bell toll for the squawls
Of the women, who screw round the post and the walls
And lost all by dozens are children and shawls!
Oh! the crowd is becoming uncommonly dense-
For the ardour's unbounded-the murmur intense !
There's a piece of the coping come down with the hawls
Of the cursed climbing servants-it turns, as it falls,
A child to a biffin. A man of no sense

Rams an old woman's eye out, and hopes no offence;
Whilst an old English tar, with mahogany mug,
Anchors fast with his dark wooden leg in a plug.
The mob is like mad!-thieves for purses or pence,

The young artful dodge-the high swell-the low fence,-
All, all are incessant to wheedle or lug;

But all have the seeming for loyalty's calls!

And the bellowing deepens-the strife never palls!

Buz-buz-yell on yell! Yes! she's coming. I can't
See a bit though as yet-though I certainly spee

(As the Scotch say) that mighty High Constable Lee ! And a carriage with horses-do look at it, Aunt! But who is within it ?—it's gone!—it can't be

That she is gone by-the spirit that we

Have been waiting in love and in ecstacy's rant

To welcome!-This large busy hive's sweet Queen Bee!
Another rich coach!—and another! I pant

To know who are in them; I don't know-I wan't!
I do—yes, I do. No one answers to me!

I am eager !-I'm wild!-I shall fall out and faint!
Oh, which is the Duchess? Oh, which is the D?
For I won't mention names in this public citee-
But they really should ticket the panels, or paint
Some sign that would give us a leetle idee

Of what, after hours of craving, we see!

There are soldiers in saddles-on foot-three and threeAnd old folks in red cloaks, all mounted and furr'dMarket-day upon horseback, it looks on my word, They're the only dear souls that prefer the absurd!

But they come !-they come!
They really do come!

Trumpet, and heart-shout, and welcoming drum,
And the people's awful and " stilly hum,"
The high proud step of the Hanover steed:
Cream-colour'd-crested-of matchless breed,-
And the ribbons and traces-and grooms to lead,—
And the cloud of guards, in cuirass and plume,
Assure us the Queen-the Queen doth come!
Slowly the car-oh! the antique car,

Like a thing of Louis Quatorze from afar-
Brings the young spirit of beauty and youth
On through her own streets, radiant in truth—
And her eye is akin to the peaceful star,

And her forehead 's calm, as young Maidens' are,
And her manner is mild as that of Ruth,
And she leans her love to the loving crowd;
And she is gracious, and they are proud,

And, by my fay, and in good sooth,
Proud may they be to feed their eyes
On one so gentle, so young, and wise!

I turn to my sisters; we stare-we stare.
Well!-all is over! The pomp, the glare,
Are gone! There is nought but the yellow air,
And a nice little drizzle for those who don't care.

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