hanced by the very remarkable expression of the stranger's eye, which was keen and bright, but shadowed by a scowl of distrust and suspicion unlike anything he had observed before, and most repulsive to behold. When they had encountered each other's glance several times in this way, the stranger, in a harsh, deep voice, broke silence.

"Were you looking for me," he said, "when you peered in at the window ?"

"Not that I am aware of, unless you 're Mr. Here Mr. Bumble stopped short, for he was curious to know the stranger's name, and thought in his impatience he might supply the blank.

66

"I see you were not," said the stranger, an expression of quiet sarcasm playing about his mouth, "or you would have known my name. You don't know it, and I should recommend you not to inquire."

“I meant no harm, young man," observed Mr. Bumble majestically..

"And have done none," said the stranger.

Another silence succeeded this short dialogue, which was again broken by the stranger.

"I have seen you before, I think," said he. "You were differently dressed at that time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should know you again. You were beadle here once, were you not?"

"I was," said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise.

dle."

"Porochial bea

"Just so," rejoined the other, nodding his head. "It was in that character I saw you. What are you now?"

"Master of the workhouse," rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively, to check any undue familiarity the stranger might otherwise assume. "Master of the workhouse, young man!"

"You have the same eye to your own interest that you always have had, I doubt not?" resumed the stranger, looking keenly into Mr. Bumble's eyes as he raised them in astonishment at the question. "Don't scruple to answer freely, man. I know you pretty well, you see."

"I suppose a married man," replied Mr. Bumble, shading his eyes with his hand, and surveying the stranger from head to foot in evident perplexity, "is not more averse to turning an honest penny when he can than a single one. Porochial officers are not so well paid that they can afford to refuse anv little extra fee, when it comes to them in a civil and proper manner.

The stranger smiled, and nodded his head again, as much as to say he found he had not mistaken his man: then rang the bell. "Fill this glass again," he said, handing Mr. bler to the landlord. "Let it be strong and hot.

pose ?"

Bumble's empty tum-
You like it so, I sup-

"Not too strong," replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough. "You understand what that means, landlord!" said the stranger drily.

The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a steaming jorum, of which the first gulph brought the water into Mr. Bumble's eyes.

"Now listen to me," said the stranger, after closing the door and window. "I came down to this place to-day to find you out, and, by one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in while you were uppermost in my mind. I want some information from you, and don't ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up that to begin with."

As he spoke he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his companion carefully, as though unwilling that the clinking of the money should be heard without; and when Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins to see that they were genuine, and put them up with much satisfaction in his waistcoat pocket, he went on.

"Carry your memory back-let me see-twelve years last winter." "It's a long time," said Mr. Bumble. "Very good. "Very good. I've done it." "The scene, the workhouse."

"Good!"

"And the time, night."

"Yes."

"And the place the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves— gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear, and hid their shame, rot 'em, in the grave."

"The lying-in room, I suppose that means?" said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger's excited description.

"Yes," said the stranger. "A boy was born there."

"A many boys," observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head despondingly.

"A murrain on the young devils!" cried the stranger impatiently; "I speak of one, a meek-looking, pale-faced hound, who was appren ticed, down here, to a coffin-maker, (I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it,) and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed."

"Why, you mean Oliver-young Twist!" said Mr. Bumble; "I remember him of course. There wasn't a obstinater young ras

"It's not of him I want to hear; I've heard enough of him," said the stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the very outset of a tirade on the subject of poor Oliver's vices. "It's of a woman, the hag that nursed his mother. Where is she?"

"Where is she?" said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered facetious. "It would be hard to tell. There's no midwifery there, whichever place she's gone to; so I suppose she's out of em. ployment any way."

"What do you mean?" demanded the stranger, sternly. "That she died last winter," rejoined Mr. Bumble.

The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and although he did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his gaze gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in thought. For some time he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or disappointed by the intelligence, but at length he breathed more freely, and withdrawing his eyes, observed that it was no great matter, and rose as if to depart.

Mr. Bumble was cunning enough, and he at once saw that an opportunity was opened for the lucrative disposal of some secret in the possession of his better half. He well remembered the night of old Sally's death, which the occurrences of that day had given him good reason to recollect as the occasion on which he had proposed to Mrs. Corney; and although that lady had never confided to him the disclosure of which she had been the solitary witness, he had heard enough to know that it related to something that had occurred in the old woman's attendance, as workhouse nurse, upon the young mother of Oliver Twist. Hastily calling this circumstance to mind, he informed the stranger with an air of mystery, that one woman had been closeted with the old harridan shortly before she died, and that she could, as he had reason to believe, throw some light on the subject of his inquiry.

"How can I find her?" said the stranger, thrown off his guard, and plainly showing that all his fears (whatever they were) were aroused afresh by the intelligence.

"Only through me," rejoined Mr. Bumble.

"When?" cried the stranger, hastily.

"To-morrow," rejoined Bumble.

"At nine in the evening," said the stranger, producing a scrap of paper, and writing down an obscure address, by the water-side, upon it, in characters that betrayed his agitation, "at nine in the evening, bring her to me there. I needn't tell you to be secret, for it's your interest."

With these words he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for the liquor that had been drunk; and shortly remarking that their roads were different, departed without more ceremony than an emphatic repetition of the hour of appointment for the following night.

On glancing at the address, the parochial functionary observed that it contained no name. The stranger had not gone far, so he made

after him to ask it.

"Who's that?" cried the man, turning quickly round as Bumble touched him on the arm. "Following me!"

"Only to ask a question," said the other, pointing to the scrap of paper. "What name am I to ask for?"

"MONKS!" rejoined the man, and strode hastily away.

VO II.

WALTER CHILDE.

CANTO III.

'Tis morn- that is, it probably was so
When this my canto doth commence; I mean
A hundred years and eighty-four ago:
Imagine now a quiet road-side scene

Clear of the town; a hostel snug and low,

White-washed and gable-ended, tight and clean, With honeysuckled porch; just where you'd say, ""Twere no bad move to breakfast on my way."

Imagine, too, a morn of early spring

Rising on Father Thames's populous vale,
The bargeman at his oar loud carolling,
The rooks astir betimes, the jocund hail
Of labourers bound afield, each living thing
Rejoicing in the season-you'll not fail
To paint what I like better, out and out,
Than foreign scenes which noodles preach about.

The fresh bright morning air, too--in most cases
'Tis the best dram a sober man can take:
If you're a youth who go to county races,
Dance till the last, talk nonsense, flirt and rake,
Then, wildered by a maze of pretty faces,
Lie in a feverish dog-sleep half awake,
'Try an old stager's recipe; 'twill prove
A sovereign cure for cramp and puppy-love.

Jump on your horse, young, hot, and three-parts bred.
Divine Camilla !-('tis no lady fair,

Good reader, who is running in my head,
But a defunct Eclipse-descended mare,

Mother of gallant steeds)-if coursers dead

Were themes for verse, and I had genius rare,
Then, like Caligula in olden time,

I'd stamp thy merits, not on stone, but rhyme.

Jump on your horse, observe, at break of day,

When your fair partners all are fast asleep,
Then let him caper, snort, and plunge away
O'er springy upland turf, nor baulk his leap
At style or fence,-I confidently say,

'Twill soon, unless your wound be really deep,
Dispel the fumes engendered by the vice
Of self-conceit, sour negus, and crude ice.

Morning's first view is most distinct and clear,
Ere hazy mists exhale from earth to clog
The sun's pure influence in the atmosphere;
Thus Reason, stifled by the moral fog
Of noon-day cares and vanities, so dear
To o'er excited man, unlucky dog!
Is most infallibly and calmly bright
When tested by the morning air and light.
2

Walter, poor fellow, knew and said the same,
Being an early riser from a boy;

None, strong in Reason's power, made greater game
Of that poetical and childish toy,

Love at first sight; he, too, proposed to tame
Feelings which brought more discontent than joy,
By a stout poster's roughest-trotting pace;
But still he felt his own no common case.

Had Isolde been (in fact she really was)
Lovelier than Solomon's Imperial bride,
He would have pass'd her in the general mass
Of ball-room beauties, and scarce look d aside, ·
But that his fatally quick ears, alas!

Had caught things sweetly soothing to the pride
Of one by no means the least proud of men,
And, as he falsely thought, at discount then.

He heard his own just praise, warm from the heart
Of a fine girl,--high-bred,--exclusive,-who
Seem'd cool, indifferent,-nay, almost tart,

To the gay throng's étite-unconscious, too,
That he was near; frank, natural, void of art;
A stranger, yet intent upon some clue

To serve his cause, a theme which she pursued
Quite quizzing proof, in grave and earnest mood.

Now what would you have thought, hoped,done or said?
Walter, whatever were his real surmise,
Would certainly have knock'd you on the head
Had you but whispered to him what his eyes
And ears confirm'd;-but there he sits, half dead
With care and broken rest, at th' inn where lies
My morning scene, and strives to puzzle out
The mystery which we have just talk'd about.

In seeming listlessness he sat, and mused

On the stone horse-block; the old mastiff there, Whom all but genuine dog-lovers abused

As surly and unsocial, came to share

His converse; and as Walter, half amused,

Stroked his black muzzle, Trouncer with fond care

His unrepell'd caresses seem'd to double.

Tis strange how dogs find out when you're in trouble.

"Trouncer, old boy," quoth he," my Trojan true,
Had I been whelp'd an honest pup of thine,

I had fared better; for I hold me, too,
Indifferent honest in my luckless line:

I then might earn a meal and honour due

By worrying knaves and robbers, and ne'er pine With memory ten times worse than the world's scorn

Live, too, and lay my bones where I was born.

་

Hostler, what now?-a letter; by the rood!

The bearer?"--"Gone." He breaks the unknown seal.

This, sir, from one to whom by you accrued

The deepest injury which heart can feel.

Three hours from hence you'll find me at the wood

Near the third mile-stone on the road to Theale,

To claim the ransom of your forfeit word.
Come, if you dare, alone, and bring your sword."