"Shall we join company in the avenue of trees which leads from Petersham to Ham House, and settle the exact spot when we arrive there ?" said Mr. Westwood.

To this the captain also assented. After a few other preliminaries, equally brief, and having settled the road each party should take to avoid suspicion, they separated.

"We shall just have comfortable time, my lord," said the captain, when he had communicated the arrangements, "to call at my rooms for a case of pistols, and then jog coolly down. If you will allow me to dismiss your servant, we'll take my cab, for yours, perhaps, might be recognised."

What a contrast, when they reached the street, to the scene they had just left! It was already daybreak. For the flaring yellow light within, was substituted the clear, bright, glorious morning; for a hot, close atmosphere, tainted with the smell of expiring lamps, and reeking with the steams of riot and dissipation, the free, fresh, wholesome air. But to the fevered head on which that cool air blew it seemed to come laden with remorse for time mis-spent and countless opportunities neglected. With throbbing veins and burning skin, eyes wild and heavy, thoughts hurried and disordered, he felt as though the light were a reproach, and shrunk involuntarily from the day as if he were some foul and

hideous thing.

so; now we're off."

So,

They rattled through the quiet streets, made their call at the captain's lodgings, cleared the town, and emerged upon the open road, with

out hindrance or molestation.

Fields, trees, gardens, hedges, every thing looked very beautiful; the young man scarcely seemed to have noticed them before, though he had passed the same objects a thousand times. There was a peace and serenity upon them all strangely at variance with the bewilderment and confusion of his own half-sobered thoughts, and yet impressive and welcome. He had no fear upon his mind; but as he looked about him he had less anger, and though all old delusions, relative to his worthless late companion, were now cleared away, he rather wished he had never known him than thought of its having come to this.

of smoking, but on reflection he remembered
when and where he had taken the cigar.
They stopped at the avenue gate and
alighted, leaving the carriage to the care of the
servant, who was a smart fellow, and nearly as
well accustomed to such proceedings as his
master. Sir Mulberry and his friend were
already there, and all four walked in
profound silence up the aisle of stately elm
trees, which, meeting far above their heads,
formed a long green perspective of gothic
arches, terminating like some old ruin in the
open sky.

After a pause, and a brief conference be-
tween the seconds, they at length turned to
the right, and taking a track across a little
meadow, passed Ham House and came into
some fields beyond. In one of these they
stopped. The ground was measured, some
usual forms gone through, the two principals
agreed upon, and Sir Mulberry turned his face
were placed front to front at the distance
towards his young adversary for the first time.
He was very pale his eyes were bloodshot,
all most probably the consequences of the
his dress disordered, and his hair dishevelled,
previous day and night. For the face, it ex-
pressed nothing but violent and evil passions.
his opponent stedfastly for a few moments, and
He shaded his eyes with his hand, gazed at
then taking the weapon which was tendered
to him, bent his eye upon that, and looked up
no more until the word was given, when he
instantly fired.

The two shots were fired as nearly as possible at the same instant. In that instant the fixed upon his adversary a ghastly stare, and, young lord turned his head sharply round, without a groan or stagger, fell down dead.

"He's gone," cried Westwood, who, with the other second, had run up to the body, and fallen on one knee beside it.

"His blood on his own head," said Sir

Mulberry." He brought this upon himself,
and forced it upon me.'

66

Captain Adams," cried Westwood, hastily, "I call you to witness that this was fairly done. Hawk, we have not a moment to lose. We must leave this place immediately, push for Brighton, and cross to France with all speed. This has been a bad business, and may be worse if we delay a moment. Adams, consult your own safety, and don't remain here; the living before the dead-good bye." With these words, he seized Sir Mulberry by the arm, and hurried him away. Captain Adams, only pausing to convince himself beThe past night, the day before, and many yond all question of the fatal result, sped off in other days and nights beside, all mingled the same direction, to concert measures with themselves up in one unintelligible and sense- his servant for removing the body, and securless whirl; he could not separate the trans-ing his own safety likewise. actions of one time from those of another. So died Lord Frederick Verisopht, by the Last night seemed a week ago, and months ago were as last night. Now the noise of the wheels resolved itself into some wild tune in which he could recognise scraps of airs he knew, and now there was nothing in his ears but a stunning and bewildering sound like rushing water. But his companion rallied him on being so silent, and they talked and laughed boisterously. When they stopped he was a little surprised to find himself in the act

hand which he had loaded with gifts, and
clasped a thousand times; by the act of him
but for whom and others like him he might
have lived a happy man, and died with chil-
dren's faces round his bed.

The sun came proudly up in all his majesty,
the noble river run its winding course, the
leaves quivered and rustled in the air, the
birds poured their cheerful songs from every
tree, the short-lived butterfly fluttered its little

Curious Historical Fact.-During the trou bles in the reign of King Charles I., a country girl came up to London in search of a place as a servant-maid, but not succeeding she ap plied herself to carrying out beer from a brew house, and was one of those then called tubwomen. The brewer observing a well-looking girl in this low occupation, took her into his family as a servant; and after a while, she behaving herself with so much prudence and decorum, he married her; but he died when she was yet a young woman, and left her large fortune. The business of the brewery was dropped, and the young woman was rew commended to Mr. Hyde, as a gentleman skill in the law, to settle her affairs. Hyde (who was afterwards the great Earl of Claren don), finding the widow's fortune very con siderable, married her. Of this marriage there was no other issue than a daughter, wh was afterwards the wife of James II., and mother of Mary and Anne, Queen of Eng land.

MARIANNE CHIMOT.

(FOR THE "FLY.") (Continued from page 106.) "Good! good! but that sad fellow, houst, the barber, is not come yet: you see I shall not be shaved and dressed for an hour. It is always the case now-a-days." While M. Capron thus took on, Marianne had returned to the kitchen, and with an eye to the ragouts, found time to spread the table in the dining-room. Meantime the barber is arrived, and has shaved the apothecary, assisting, moreover, in putting the finishing touch to his dress, knowing by a thousand good stories how to make his sleek customer forget the delay, and to render less long the time that still lingers to dinner.

"There's one o'clock, and one minute past -one o'clock, and two minutes past-one o'clock, and three minutes past, and Marianne has not announced dinner. It is enough to make one lose patience. Heaven be praised! here she is ;" and, leaning on the arm of his housekeeper, M. Capron is about to take post at table in his large easy chair. It is Marianne who attaches the napkin under the chin of her master. It is she who froths up his tumbler; Marianne cuts the most delicate morsels; Marianne cautions him now and then; and by no means the least necessary of her mild importunities, to eat a little more slowly. After dinner, Marianne conducts him to the drawing-room, where a soft and quiet siesta facilitates the digestion of the old man, and refreshes him after the weighty affair of dinner. On waking, M. Capron finds the table cleared, the kitchen is in order, the casseroles, cleaned and bright, have taken their places over the dresser against the wall; and Marianne, in best bib and tucker, near her master, is knitting him worsted hose, and waiting till it should please the good man to wake up, and avail himself of his governant's arm into the village, to make one at Pope Joan, or piquet at Madame de Fremery's.

Marianne's confectionary was so good, and besides she had learnt the art of making her marchpayne pastery so perfectly, that M. Capron had imperceptibly resigned himself to the then state of things, and talked no more about convents than as a mechanical want, backed by a sort of mute sympathy, which old people feel in regretting that which no longer exists.

on their

anne more devotion for her master, and denial of self, than the most juvenile or violent passion could have produced. Her master was her only thought-her every moment's occuLa-pation-the end of all her actions-the object of all her care. She would have felt more for the indisposition of her master than if the house had been put into disorder. It was the constant study of Marianne to project some new species of comfort for the excellent M. As to arrests, which daily occurred at CamCapron. One might see the satisfied look, bray, and threw some friend or acquaintance the mysterious smile of the old housekeeper, of M. Capron from time to time into prison, after preparing something of this sort, and the ex-apothecary, who since the last year had brought it for her master's approval. found much trouble in walking, was of neces You might observe, too, the big tear standing sity forced to keep the house, and knew noin the eye of M. Capron, whenever he wit- thing of all this: Marianne expressly recomnessed any fresh mark of attention from Mari-mending to those who came to visit her master anne. Sometimes it was a cushion a trifle too an obedient regard, and the most rigid silence hard, which was replaced by a down top, that on that head. Now, should any of them have an archbishop might envy. Then again it thought fit to counteract these judicious prewas a carpet to remedy the slight cold that liminaries of Marianne, he would have not might come from the hearth before the fire only renounced all invitations to dinner at M. had drawn up. At night the flame of the Capron's (who never asked friends without candles vascillated a little, from a slight cur- the participation of his housekeeper), but rent of air produced from a door badly jointed. would have stood a chance of having shut in Next day a sand-bag or a parcel of wadding his face for the future, by the pitiless gouverhas effectually closed up the chink, and the nante, the old doctor's street door. Of this, old apothecary sees with satisfaction the every one being aware, all were candles burn straight and evenly. Marianne guard; for, beside the never-failing sources showed the like attention at all times, and for of imagination which Marianne displayed, every thing: nothing, in fact, was a trouble people dined well at her master's in spite of or fatigue to our housekeeper. "Monsieur the scarcity and the maximum, most strangely will be surprised and pleased," she would say; contrasted within doors and without. and in this thought there was ample recom- A frivolous incident came unexpectedly to pense for any pains, however long or irksome. destroy all this present contentment. One of By dint of care and precautions so minute, the old friends of M. Capron, Madame de Marianne had succeeded not only to keep off Fremery, had lately died; and the notary, many infirmities attendant on old age, but charged with the performance of her last to render them almost imperceptible when wishes, wrote to the ex-apothecary, informing they did come. Thus, for instance, when the him that the respectable lady had bequeathed hearing of the good man became dull, Mari- him twelve silver table spoons, and her paroanne raised her voice when she spoke, and re-quet. One article of the will consigned the commended the friends of M. Capron to do the same; and as long as their visit lasted, there she was on her guard, and ready by sign to stimulate their voices when she perceived At nine o'clock precisely Marianne is ar- them on the point of disregarding her admonirived, lantern in hand, to escort back the old tions. Thus it was that the ex-apothecary pothecary, who on arriving at home finds a would sometimes flatter himself on not being upper prepared of light meats, such as suit over cut up, for his age; and the gout exhim to eat at his age before going to bed. cepted, he would say, which from time to time Supper done, he moves slowly off to his attacks my legs, I am still a young enough chamber. Then Marianne undresses him, man, for Marianne had persuaded him that raws on his head a warm cotton nightcap, the weakness of his legs (quasi paralytique) nd puts him to bed as a mother would lay came in good sooth d'une attaque passagere de own her infant. Then she tucks under the goutte, that he would speedily leave him, and ld gentleman's feet a stone bottle of hot which for all that had lasted ten years. water, which maintains a mild heat in the The Revolution and terror came, thereby ed, already pan-warmed; after which adjust-rendering to M. Capron the devotedness of ng the eider down coverlet, and lighting the Marianne still more necessary. M. Capron amp, she salutes her master with a respectful had made his fortune by supplying medicine Bon soir, M. Capron." M. Capron does to the numerous convents at Cambray; this ot always reply, for the greater part of the as a source of emolument had long ceased to me he has been consigned to the arms of exist, and the destruction of nunneries, with Horpheus. the consequent dispersion of the sisterhood, Such has been the life for twenty years that deprived him of many small presents which e old apothecary and his gentle house-his fair friends failed not to load their old apoeeper have led together. Existence quiet, thecary. Besides which, he knew them to be ood, and uniform, as free from regrets wandering without homes, and reduced to the evening as without care for the poverty. But at seventy we are apt to turn orrow; existence caressed, and even tinc- egotist, forgetting the evils of others, whilst red with love, for habit had given to Mari-weourselves feel them but lightly. And then

said paroquet in especial to the care of Mademoiselle Marianne Chimot. Marianne promised to fulfil to the letter the recommendation of the defunct, and went to take possession of the paroquet. The arrival of this bird was an event for M. Capron and for his gouvernante. The cage scowered, rubbed, and waxed, was placed at a window looking into the inner court, and M. Capron had his arm chair wheeled near this window. There he passed many hours of the day, not only with gorging the paroquet with lumps of sugar, but also in striving by every means in his power to make the bird talk. The animal surprised, and doubtless out of sorts at changing its domicile, and the sight of strange faces, most pertinaciously held its peace. Nevertheless, some days after its arrival, under a bright sun, the rays of which fell warm upon the cage, it began to talk, and you may imagine the joy of M. Capron, when he heard the bird gravely repeat the sacramental phrase

"Have you breakfasted, Jacot ?" In spite of the difficulty in walking, the old man dragged himself down to the kitchen to apprise Marianne of this grand piece of news. Marianne, with eager haste, almost infantine, ran to the cage. The bird was now become as bold and talkative as he was formerly disposed to silence; he laughed, sang, and talked

She wakes her lute's soft harmony and sings,

and whistled to be heard at a hundred yards' | Teaches each look-each accent to express,
distance. The two good people could hardly The thrilling sense of new-found happiness.
contain themselves for joy, exchanging with
one another looks of astonishment, not daring
to pronounce a word, lest they should check
the strain, or close up the bird's vocabulary.
For two years there had been no joy like it in
the house.

(To be concluded next week.)

LETTER-BOX.

We direct the attention of our subscribers to an announcement in this number of a dinner given by the veteran Dibdin, of poetic fame, to his friends and the public. Many of our readers will doubtless avail themselves of the opportunity of joining such a party as

the summons of the last of the Dibdins must gather round him.

"Mr. H-." We are too well suited to think of changing; at least at present.

THE LOVE-LETTER.

She holds the letter in her eager hands,
'Tis from an absent one, most loved, most
dear;

Yet statue-like and motionless she stands,
Nor dares to seek her fate, she looks in fear
On the mute herald, ready to bestow
The tidings of her weal, or of her woe.
Perchance that long-wished record may con-
tain

The chilling courtesies of studied art;
Or speak in friendship's calm and steady
strain,

Mocking the feeling of her fervent heart. Perchance, oh! thought of bliss, it may dis

cover,

Ah! once her very songs appeared a token
Of her deep grief, and she would touch the
strings

To tales of hopeless love, and fond hearts
broken.

But now her lays are all of hope and youth,
Of joyous ecstacy and changeless truth.

Her guests depart, the moonbeams clear and
bright

O'er her still chamber cast their radiance
even ;

And kneeling in the pale and silvery light,

She breathes her grateful orisons to heaven.

Then seeks her couch, oh ! may repose impart A GREAT VARIETY of FRAMES, from
Fair visions to her young and happy heart.

the common Black up to the most elegant and richly emblazoned Gilt, suited to every style of print or picture, constantly on sale at the manufactory, 220, Deansgate, Manchester.

Notice the following extraordinary prices:

troops. The likeness of the Queen is the PORT
most accurate that has been taken, and the
surrounding figures are grouped together in a
masterly manner; it will on its completion be
decidedly the best picture that has been given.
with the "Fly."

A specimen of this print will be shown at
trade in the ensuing week. A few of the
the office on the 19th inst., and issued to the
early impressions on Imperial Proof paper
will be prepared for sale at a Shilling each.

MACREADY!

2. Mr. Richard Oastler.

3. Mr. John Frost.

4.

5. Robert Owen, Esq.

Each portrait is surrounded by an emblematic design, which gives to the picture a highly interesting and elegant appearance.

In rapid succession will appear, portraits of Messrs. H. Vincent, F. O'Connor, O'Brien, Lovett, &c., &c.

28., 3d., and Proofs for framing, 6d.
Also, on ONE SHEET, portraits of Feargus
O'Connor, Bronterre O'Brien, R. Oastler, Heary
Hunt, and William Cobbett. Price only 28.

A. Carlile, publisher, Water-lane, Fleet-street, London; and Thomas Paine Carlile, 220, Deans gate, Manchester.

DIBDIN'S DINNER.

The proprietors of the "Fly" beg to announce for gratuitous presentation with the 39th number of their popular periodical, a splendid portrait of Mr. W. C. Macready, in the character of " King Henry V." This print has been some time in careful preparation, and is now produced at the auspicious era when the brilliant career of Mr. Macready, sion to sing some of his most popular compositions.

T. DIBDIN most respectfully announces t his Friends that a DINNER will take place on Wednesday, the 17th instant, at the National Bath Tavern, 218, High Holborn. A select few of his professional brethren will attend upon the occa Tickets 5s., including Dessert.

Mr. LIONEL GOLDSMID will take the Chair.

as lessee of Covent Garden Theatre, has
ended. Specimens have been supplied to the
principal venders, and a few fine proofs taken,
which will be sold at One Shilling each. Published for JAMES GLOVER, at Water-lane
They are worked on Imperial paper for
framing.

Fleet-street.

John Cunningham, Printer, Crowa-court, 72, Fleet-street

IBI MUSCA."

Every purchaser of this number of "THE FLY," is entitled to an exquisitely-executed Lithographic PRINT of MACREADY which is presented gratuitously.-[A similar print with every number.]

John Cunningham, Printer, Crown-court, Fleet-street.