forgives every body-well then, in course, the judge and all the nobs are no Christians, else wouldn't they forgive me? Wouldn't they like it so, to teach me better, and not to kill me? But I don't mind; I'll be game; see if I don't be game-precious! "

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The ordinary, with a perplexed look, sighed deeply. The sad condition of the boy, the horrid death awaiting him, the natural shrewdness with which he combated the arguments employed for his conversion, affected the worthy clergyman beyond all past experience. Miserable little wretch!" he thought, "it will be worst of murders, if he dies thus." And then, again, he essayed to soften the child felon, who seemed determined to stand at issue with his spiritual counsellor; to recede no step, but to the gallows foot to defy him. It would be his ambition, his glory-if he must die to die game. He had heard the praises bestowed upon such a death-had known the contemptuous jeering flung upon the repentant craven-and he would be the theme of eulogy in Hog Lane-he would not be laughed, sneered at, for “ dying dunghill." And this temper so grew and strengthened in St. Giles, that, at length, the ordinary, wearied and hopeless, left his forlorn charge, promising soon to return, and hoping, in his own words, to find the prisoner a kinder, better, and more Christian boy."

"It's no use your reading that stuff to me," said St. Giles, as the turnkey was about to resume his book; "I don't understand nothin' of it; and it's too late to learn. But I say, can't you tell us somethin' of Turpin and Jack Sheppard, eh? Something prime, to give us pluck?"

Come, come, answered the man, "it's no use going on in this way. You must be quiet and listen to me; it's all for your good, I tell you all for your good."

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My good! Well, that's pretty gammon, that is. I should like to know what can be for my good if I'm to be hanged? Ha! ha! See if I don't kick my shoes off, that's all." And St. Giles would not listen; but sat on the stool, swinging his legs backwards and forwards, and singing one of the melodies known in Hog Lane-poor wretch! it had been a cradle melody to him,whilst the turnkey vainly endeavoured to soothe and interest him. At length the man discontinued his hopeless task; and, in sheer listlessness, leaning his back against the wall, fell asleep. And now St. Giles was left alone. And now, relieved of importunity, did he forego the bravado that had supported him, and solemnly think

of his approaching end? Did he, with none other but the eye of God in that stone cell, upon him-did he shrink and wither beneath the look; and, on bended knees, with opened heart, and flowing, repentant tears, did he pray for Heaven's compassion-God's sweet mercy? No. Yet thoughts deep, anxious thoughts were brooding in his heart. His face grew older with the meditation that shadowed it. All his being seemed compressed, intensified in one idea. Gloomily, yet with whetted eyes, he looked around his cell and still darker and darker grew his face. Could he break prison? Such was the question the foolish, idle, yet flattering question that his soul put to itself. All his recollections of the glory of Turpin and Sheppard crowded upon him—and what greater glory would it be for him if he could escape! He, a boy to do this? He to be sung in ballads-to be talked of, huzzaed, and held up for high example, long after he should be deadpassed for ever from the world? The proud thought glowed within him-made his heart heave-and his eyes sparkle. And then he looked about his cell, and the utter hopelessness of the thought fell upon him, withering his heart. Yet again and again—although to be crushed with new despair-he gazed about him, dreaming of liberty without that wall of flint. And thus his waking hours passed; and thus, in the visions of the night, his spirit busied itself in hopeful vanity.

The Tuesday morning came, and again the clergyman visited the prisoner. The boy looked paler, thinner-no more. There was no softness in his eyes, no appealing glance of hope: but a fixed and stubborn look of inquiry. "He didn't know nothing of what the parson had to say, and he didn't want to be bothered. It was all gammon ! These were the words of the boy felon, then-such was the humanity of the law; poor law! what a long nonage of discretion has it passed!-then within a day's span of

the

grave.

As the hour of death approached, the clergyman became more assiduous, fervent, nay passionate in his appeals to the prisoner; who still strengthened himself in opposition to his pastor. "My dear boy,-my poor child-miserable, helpless creature!—the grave is open before you-the sky is opening above you! Die without repentance, and you will pass into the grave, and never— never know immortal blessings! Your soul will perish-perish as I have told you-in fire, in fire eternal!"

St. Giles swayed his head to and fro, and with a sneer asked,

"What's the good o' all this? Have n't you told me so, Mister, agin and agin?"

The ordinary groaned almost in despair, yet still renewed his task. 66 The heavens, I tell you, are opening for you; repent, my child; repent, poor boy, and you will be an immortal spirit, welcomed by millions of angels.'

St. Giles looked with bitter incredulity at his spiritual teacher. "Well, if all that's true," he said, "it isn't so hard to be hanged, arter all. But I don't think the nobs like me so well, as to send me to sich a place as that."

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Nay, my poor boy," said the ordinary, "you will not, cannot understand me, until you pray. Now, kneel-my dear child, kneel and let us pray together." Saying this, the ordinary fell upon his knees; but St. Giles, folding his arms, so planted himself as to take firmer root of the ground; and so he stood with moody, determined looks, whilst the clergyman-touched more than was his wont-poured forth a passionate prayer that the heart of the young sinner might be softened; that it might be turned from stone into flesh, and become a grateful sacrifice to the throne of God. And whilst this prayer, in deep and solemn tones, rose from the prison-cell, he for whom the prayer was formed, seemed to grow harder, more obdurate, with every syllable. Still, he refused to bend his knee at the supplication of the clergyman, but stood eyeing him with a mingled look of incredulity, defiance, and contempt. "God help you-poor lost lamb!" cried the ordinary, as he rose.

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Now, I hope we shall have no more o' that," was the only answer of St. Giles.

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The ordinary was about to quit the cell, when the door was opened, and the governor of the jail, attended by the head turnkey, entered. My dear sir, I am glad to find you here". said the governor to the ordinary. "I have a pleasing duty to perform a duty that I know it will delight you to witness." The ordinary glanced at a paper held by the governor; his eyes brightened; and clasping his hands, he fervently uttered"Thank God!"

The governor then turned to St. Giles, who suddenly looked anxious and restless. 66 Prisoner," he said, "it is my happiness to inform you, that his gracious Majesty has been mercifuly pleased to spare your life. You will not suffer with the unfortunate men to-morrow. You understand me, boy"-for St. Giles looked

suddenly stupefied-"you understand me, that the good King whom you should ever pray for, has, in the hope that you will turn from the wickedness of your ways, determined to spare your life? You will be sent out of the country; and time given you that, if you properly use, will make you a good and honest man."

St. Giles made no answer, but trembled violently from head to foot. Then his face flushed red as flame, and covering it with his hands, he fell upon his knees; and the tears ran streaming through his fingers. Pray with me; pray for me!" he cried,

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in broken voice, to the ordinary.

And the ordinary knelt, and rendered up "humble and hearty thanks" for the mercy of the King!

We will not linger in the prison-St. Giles was destined for Botany Bay. Mr. Capstick was delighted, in his own way, that the ends of justice would be satisfied; and whilst he rejoiced with the triumph of justice, he did not forget the evil-door; for St. Giles received a packet from the muffin-maker, containing sundry little comforts for his voyage.

"We shall never see him again, Jem," said Mrs. Aniseed, as she left Newgate weeping; having taken her farewell of the young transport. "He's gone for ever from us.

"Not he," said Bright Jem; 66 we shall see him again another feller quite a true man, yet; I'm sure of it."

Whether Bright Jem was a true prophet will in due season be discovered by the patient reader of the next chapters.

HOW WILL IT LOOK?

THIS certainly appears a sufficiently harmless question; and therefore, when we say that the bare thought of it throws us into a fury, and well nigh deprives us of that philosophy which we need to employ in its treatment, the reader may reasonably be surprised -whence our indignation?

The same question may proceed from different motives, and express different feelings. According to the varieties of tone and emphasis with which it may be asked, are its diversities of meaning.

N. or M., as the case may be, goes to purchase, as may also be the case, a hat or a bonnet. There are two hats or bonnets for choice. In price and quality they are similar; in cut and colour they differ. And with reference to each, comparatively, N. or M.

inquires, "How will it look ?"

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That is, which will look the best? because I may as well choose the better-looking." We swear not by George Fox: we regard not taste as sin and folly; and to the question, How will it look?" thus interpreted, we have no manner of objection: but on the contrary, approve of it. We would put it to our tailor, our haberdasher, our bootmaker, ourselves.

But O. and P. are choosing the hat or bonnet. The hats or bonnets are equally durable; but one is a little better-looking, and much dearer, than the other. The difference of price is more than O. or P. can afford. Why not, then, put up with the second-best hat or bonnet?" Oh!" murmurs O. or P., moodily, discontentedly, complaining, "but how will it look?"

Which is as much as to say, "Had I not better exceed my means, than curb my vanity?"

This aspect of the question, "How will it look?" it is that excites our bile. Nobody, to be sure, but a clown would disregard, none but a conceited cynic would wilfully neglect, appearances; but to immolate to these even the shadow of a principle, to us seems inexpressibly vile. To outrun the constable, to plunge into debt, that is, to live on other people's money, just in order that the world at large may admire our insignificant exterior, how sordidly, pitifully dishonest! Much less shame than for such conduct should we take to ourselves, if, being hungry, we were to stretch forth our hand and steal. We consider a man a fool, to say no worse, who puts himself out of the way, who mulets himself, or his own, of any considerable comfort or enjoyment for show. But, for a thing so small, to infringe at once convenience and conscience, is too much for our patience to think upon. We feel tempted, not to remonstrance, but to rail; not to argue, but call names. could wish that our ink were very gall; that so, in suitable characters, we might write down O. and P., and all their tribe, asses, oafs, dolts, loggerheads, numbskulls, ninnies, to the end of the chapter.

We

It is enough to put anybody, a Socrates, a Plato, an Isaac Newton, into a rage, to contemplate a world of simpletons possessed of the means of enjoying to the full all manner of really