H

the stout dwelling of a more solid, a more truthful race once went tediously through the various stages of stability and decay.

long after his mother commenced cleaning out more than one "set" of grim-looking" chambers," which were found perfectly "straight" by the Barristers, who never saw or heard the mysterious power that kept their Chambers in order; indeed, I never heard of these law-laundresses being encountered at all. Once a week, a scrap of evil spelling intimated, that so much for cleaning and so much for coals was to be left on the chimney-piece; no one knew where the writer lived; no one could have known if she had died, for another would have taken her place; she crept about, morning and evening, more noiseless, and more unobserved, than the cats that stare from the roofs upon the courts below. She was a simple, earnest creature, whose mind was so entirely right that she could see no wrong; and all her heart's desire, despite the den she lived in, was to bring Tom up in her own simplicity and honesty of purpose.

Tom, as I have said, was a pale, delicate boy, of about fourteen years old, but not larger than most boys of eleven. He was remarkably gentle and patient; knew every court, and alley, and nook, and corner of "The Temple," which he believed a much finer and holier place than was to be found anywhere else in the world; he often went messages for the gentlemen; and was employed, for about two years, by a lawyer, (who, strange to say, in these evil times, had nothing to do,) to sit in the front office. And these were the two bright years of Tom's life; for he did nothing all day but read; he read law-books, while his master read the papers; and he mightily desired to get into the Courts, and hear the pleadings; and when he came home at night he would arrange his mother's mob-cap wig-fashion, and make long speeches to the bird-cage, and call his simple mother his learned brother." All this perplexed her, for she had hoped to see him follow his father's trade, and mend shoes, but he would not hear of it; he would do anything in the world she desired except undertake a trade.

In a garret of one of those "picturesque houses" Tom Talbot lived with his mother. The windows were nearly all "nailed up," or the light "bricked out," as if it had done something wrong, and could not be again admitted; substantial doors hung upon curious old hinges, and in and about the panels crawled manner of insects-earwigs and rolling "woodmen," and spiders, spiders, whose huge webs hung in positive tapestry over the crumbling walls, filling up dark corners where flies never went, (so that spiders must have other food,) and tangling around the cornices until they looked like funeral palls. The basements were in better condition than the attics; but all, though swarming with the animal life of existence, and the insect life of decay, were doomed long ago to be pulled down. The balustrades of the ba nisters were broken or dislocated; the floorings of the dark closets torn up and destroyed; the boards in the chambers rose, by common consent, at one end, when trodden upon at the other; the leather hangings, or oak panels, had long disappeared; and if Mrs. Talbot or poor Tom were "wanted," it seemed a service of danger, in more ways than one, to ascend to their dwelling. The several floors could not be considered as tenanted by "pleasant neighbours" in any way poor wandering children of sin and shame staggered, or trembled, up the creaking and unsafe stairs at all hours of the night; eyes, brightened by the evil spirit of alcohol, gleamed and flashed in the darkness, and words, hard and loud, mingled together, and echoed through the lofty chambers. But the poor widow inhabited the highest loft, she worked hard, and slept soundly; and, as she arose before the sun-beams shone on the mullions of the old windows, or darted a single ray through the interstices where the mortar had dropped away from the brick-work, the house was still and quiet, and she heard nothing as she descended save the heavy breathing of the sleepers. Before she left her little room she always covered Tom up carefully, leaving his cup of pale-blue city milk, and his slice of bread, ready for breakfast. She also put her apron over his green linnet: the bird never sang loud enough to rouse an infant, but she thought he might waken Tom, and on the chance she covered him also. And close by the bird's cage stood an old-fashioned oakleaved geranium in a red earthen pot; and above it was suspended another flower-pot, containing a climbing, or rather a descending plant, which flourished vigorously, throwing out tassels and tendrils about and around, with as much grace and beauty as if it hung in a lady's conservatory instead of the two-performed at the command of the humble librarian. paned window of an "untenantable house."

From this it may be gathered, that the very poverty of Tom Talbot's little room bore a cheerful aspect; the bird and the plants were luxuries-the luxuries of a natural, but not a vulgar mind; and the sleep enjoyed by that pale delicate boy was a luxury also-for he slept soundly and peacefully, long,

Tom was, as I have said, a pale, delicate creature, with tastes and feelings as delicate as his appearance; of so peace-loving and gentle a disposition that his companions, or rather those who desired to be his companions, called him a coward. This gave Tom a great deal of uneasiness; he felt he was not strong enough to fight, as others did, and yet he had a great wish to distinguish himself for bravery. His mind was superior, and his information greater, than that of any other boy of his age in the neighbourhood; he would sit for hours beneath the light of his two-paned window, imbibing the richest knowledge from volumes obtained at a neighbouring book-stall, paying for his reading by sundry acts of industry

He felt the increasing power of his growing mind, and yet the taint of cowardice embittered his life; and often, when the bullet-eyes of a pugilistic youth, who dwelt somewhere in the basement of the old house, turned upon him with an expression of scorn and derision, he would slink away, abashed at his own want of strength, and wondering why he should

"But their books did not die," persisted Tom;

law may die poor, but those who practise it die rich."

"I've often thought of turning my back on the Temple altogether," said the widow, shaking the salt up by knocking the leaden salt box, all battered yet bright though it was, against the table. "Even the barristers, except a young one here and there, expect the half-pence change in a little brown pile upon the paid bill.”

have been cast upon the world without fitness for its struggles. This thought often drove him to the very" and I have heard before now that men who write verge of despair,-he ceased to enjoy his books, or the song of his bird, or the tender care bestowed upon him by his most tender mother. Instead of sleeping peacefully, as he used at one time, after she left the attic, he would rise betimes, so that he might get to his occupations before any of the neighbouring boys, particularly the one with the insolent eyes, were stirring; but the insolent eyes seemed to poor Tom endowed with the power of following wherever he went, for if he only closed his own, there they were, round, and grey, and hard as marbles, and with as little feeling and expression-staring at him perpetually. They disturbed his dreams; they were opposite to him if he looked up from the page that folded up the poor quarter of a pound of butter, and which he never failed to peruse; they met him in the narrow alley, and cast stones as it were at him from the rickety book-shelf that trembled beneath the weight of his few books.

"Mother," said Tom one night, when the poor woman, somewhat elated by a new fourpenny-piece that one of the Templars had added to her bill as a free gift, brought home a slice of cheese, a lettuce, and a sprig of groundsel for the old linnet; "mother, there is no use in talking, but I shall never be happy until I buy a gun.”

“Dear me, Tom," replied the simple-hearted woman, "that's easy done, there's plenty of them at the toy stand, beautiful red stocks and tin barrels like silver, a penny a-piece; I would ha' bought thee one tonight, if I thought thee had a mind for't."

"And the attorneys, mother?"

"Oh, I never do for them at all! never! since one asked me for what they call discount on a half-crown debt."

Tom always smiled at his mother's hatred of attorneys, and insisted the lettuce was not fairly divided, his share was so much the largest; but the lad's mind reverted to his grandfather and the gun.

"Mother!" he recommenced, "I often think how great the soldiers must feel at the Horse Guards, and yet they are only men; they could never be so great but for the gun; when they fold their arms over it and walk, they look as though all the stony eyes in London could not frighten them."

His mother looked up, but made no reply; she had said grace before the commencement of their simple meal, and repeated a thanksgiving as reverently as though the supper had been salmon, not salad.

"Tom," she replied, after a little quiet smile had subsided into the wrinkles time had furrowed around her mouth, and her face assumed its usual thoughtful and patient expression, "Tom, dear, I'd rather you'd turn my caps into a hundred lawyers' wigs, than take on about soldiering."

"I am not a baby, nor a child now," replied Tom, I have no notion of soldiering, mother," he

in the nearest approach to anger he ever made, "I'm not indeed, mother, such a child as to want a toy gun; I want a real one!"

"Lor bless the boy!" she exclaimed, suffering the lettuce she had just shaken to fall again into the bowl; "a real gun! why, what would 'ee do with it? there isn't a sparrow now in any of the courts, nor a daw."

"I do not want to shoot any thing, or any one, mother, but if I had a gun I think I should become brave; I am sure I should! I might put a little, just a leetle powder into it, and set it off over the parapet with a bang and a fiz, so that the ogre, with the great hard stony eyes, Jack Pigeon, should see and hear it."

"Ah, Tom!" replied his mother, looking at him mournfully, "I thought the war spirit was out of the family; thee father was peace-loving and gentle, he would not even run his awl into a shoe roughly, and yet his father was as great a warrior as he was a miser, and had won much in foreign parts, though we never knew what he did with it."

"A warrior, mother!" repeated Tom, with a delight which sent a glow to his pale cheek; "a real living warrior, fearing nothing, like those old heroes I have read about?"

"I am grieved enough, Tom, that you do read so much. I tell 'ee men who have made great books have died in a worse room than this, boy."

answered, "I know myself too well for that; but I am so weakly, that the other lads laugh at me and treat me scornfully; they do not care for what I know or what I feel; they see me pale and sickly looking and think that I do not feel, at least they know I cannot resent an injury."

"The fruit of all thy reading, Tom, is that thy own mother does not understand 'ee. If thou meanest that thou hast no strength to fight that Pigeon, I'm glad enough, I tell 'ee. He's a bad lad, and would gie 'ee the worst on't."

"Not if I had the gun, mother."

"Surely 'ee wouldn't murder the lad?" exclaimed Mrs. Talbot.

"No, mother; but I might pepper him a little, just to make him civil. Not that I'd do that, either; I think to show it him would be enough."

Tom's mother looked at him long and earnestly. The boy opened some old torn book and sat down to read by the glimmer-for it could not be called light-of a thin yellow candle; and after a time his mother set about washing a pile of dusters and cloths of various sorts and degrees, humming occasionally a line of an old hymn, and sometimes calling to Tom to snuff the candle, or put a bit of coal on the fire, as the clothes must be dry for the morning. Then she remained active and silent for a time, then again seemed restless,