DOST know, my little vagrant pen, Dost know, twice twenty thousand eyes, Now list to me, my fairy pen, But" mind your Ps and Qs"-you rover ! While tripping gaily to and fro, Let not a thought escape you lightly; But challenge all before they go, You know that words but dress the frame, So drape not spirits dull and tame, I would not have my pen pursue The "beaten track "-a slave forever; Let hope paint pictures in your way, The sunbeam 'truth' to keep them gleaming. And shrink not thou when tyrant-wrong Be tuned to tenderest music when Of sin and shame thou'rt sadly singing; But diamond be thy point, my pen! And here as usual on you've flown, From right to left, flown fast and faster Till even while you wrote it down, You've missed the task you ought to master. But when the sea and land Like burning scroll have fled, I'll see it in His hand Who judgeth quick and dead, And when of scathe and loss That man can ne'er repair, The dread inquiry meets my soul, What shall it answer there? CHAPTER I. THE QUARREL. "Sir, here's a dish I love not. I cannot endure my Lady's Tongue."-Much Ado about Nothing. "Do you hear me, Sir Methusalah Rust?" No answer. "I have been talking to you for the last halfhour, sir." "Bless me, I thought it was much longer!" "I understand your sneer, sir, perfectly; you are getting tired of me. I am properly served! I had no business to marry you-twelve months ago I was my own mistress." "I know it, my lady, and now you want to be mine." I was a free woman then." "And I merely knew the name of slavery." Slavery! Upon my word, Sir Methusalah, you improve!" "I wish the virtue was infectious; I should be delighted to see my whole family inoculated with the same disposition." "Sir Methusalah, your inuendos are unpardonable; since our wedding-day you have become a miserably altered man!" "Couldn't you favor me with an H before the altered?" "I could indeed if you had your deserts. I am your wife, sir!" If that's one of them I willingly dispense with the rest." Sir Methusalah! In one word-do you intend to pass the season in London or not?" happiness, and that ten thousand a year very frequently buys ten thousand times more plagues than pleasures." "Indeed! Vastly fine! But I won't endure this much longer, sir! What a fool have I been! Had I married Mr. Honeysuckle I should have had-" "To carry out your floricultural cognomen and trust to a fig leaf for your attire." "Sir Methusalah, I look upon that as a profane observation; it is a scriptural allusion unbecoming a decent Christian; but never mind, sir! I have a cousin who will see me righted-who will demand satisfaction from you, sir, for my wrongs. Yes, sir, a cousin and not only a cousin but a cornet in the Light Dragoons. The-the-I forget the number of his regiment." "I don't, my lady-the seventh. I bought him his commission; but certainly not with the pleasant anticipation of becoming his target." "That remark is decidedly mean; you are always throwing that trifling purchase in my teeth." "Give it a taste of your tongue, my lady; and it will never again come within a mile of them." "Sir Methusalah! I have read of JoB, and I trust I know what is due to you and to myself; it is therefore with extreme pain I now fulfil an imperative but unpleasant duty. Sir, I should sully my character with the vile sin of hypocrisy did I not most unequivocally assert I consider you a brute." "My Lady Rust, among many other grievous deficiencies, the result of a neglected education and perhaps defective natural capabilities, I have observed, with surprise and regret, your total ignorance of natural history; may I suggest to you, to avoid any farther display of your weakness, the necessity of studying BUFFON-you will find it in the library-a careful perusal of the pages will convince you of the entire impropriety of the application of the term you have just honored me with, and now, good morning, my lady." "Good morning, my torment." CHAPTER II. The conversation recorded above passed between a gentleman on the Autumnal side of fifty, but still possessed of a hale person and distinguished bearing, and, spite of a taste of the vixen in her kindling eye, and rather more than a taste of it in her nimble tongue, a remarkably pretty woman of about five and twenty. Lady Methusalah Rust exchanged her maiden for her present name more at the instigation of her friends than from the warm promptings of her own heart. The disparity of years between the parties was in her prudent mother's opinion amply compensated by the very handsome fortune possessed by Sir Methusalah Rust. If he was old, so was his baronetcy; so were the title-deeds of his estate, the timber upon it, and even the very wine in his cellars. He had it in his power to dower a wife eligibly and provide for scampish younger sons and cousins to the tenth generation. Besides all this, Sir Methusalah was emphatically a "scholar and a gentleman," possessing the esteem of his equals and the love and respect of his tenants and dependants. The proverb, which in rather forcible language hints at the probability of persons of precarious means, suddenly indulging in equestrian exercises, ending their career in very exceptionable society, is daily and hourly borne out with various modifications. Lady Methusalah Rust was one of its illustrations; the possession of wealth to an amount she never expected rendered her recklessly extravagant, and the expenses of her first season in town had been so profuse that Sir Methusalah resolved upon a sojourn at his country seat, and consequent retrenchment; an arrangement by no means in accordance with the taste or wishes of his dashing and ambitious young wife. No stone was left unturned to induce him to alter his determination; caresses, promises of prudence, entreaties, and finally peevish complaints and unceasing worrying had been tried in vain; their only effect was to produce a corresponding degree of ill-temper, and at times actual ill-nature in the bosoms of the husband and wife; the one frequently twitting the other with disparity of years and receiving for answer provoking allusions to former poverty; all the excellent qualities on either side were overlooked, and they were fast paving the way to a future of disquiet, mutual disgust and unhappiness. Sir Methusalah began to look upon his former fondness as folly, and Lady Rust merged all the blessings of her really eligible situation in the absurd fancy that wealth, title, attention, affection and position were bad exchanges for former privations and freedom, and if the truth must be told each looked upon the other, not as a helpmate and friend, but rather as a clog and incumbrance. My lady at times "wondering how she would look in weeds," and almost fearing Sir Methusalah would be unpleasant enough to emulate his ancient namesake; while that worthy more than once cast his eyes on the hatchment exhibited over the portals of a widowed squire, and thought such an emblem on his own mansion, betokening the same bereavement, would scarcely break his heart. CHAPTER III. THE SERVANTS' HALL. Sir Methusalah Rust's establishment was an extensive one, kept up after the manner of the "Fine old English gentleman." His domestics, like a good landlord, were "a host in themselves," but those whose interests are connected with the present sketch were only three, viz: John Thomas, the butler; Con Sweeny, the groom; and pretty, plump Patty Pride, My lady's own ladies' maid. John Thomas was a thorough-bred Englishman and most unadulterated cockney. London with John Thomas was the world; those born within the sound of " Bowbells,' the selected-silver-spoonmouth portions of society; those denied that privilege pitiable persons indeed. John Thomas was a very sausage of prejudices; small portions of every national liking, or antipathy, must have been chopped up, blended together and thrust, even to the risk of bursting it, into the external cuticle of John Thomas. John Thomas believed there was such a place as Hireland, or as in his loftier moods he termed it Ibernia, thereby nullifying by omission the gratuitous expenditure of the misapplied "H;" and he labored under a delusion-we regret to say not altogether confined to John Thomas-that the British Government supported the Hirish, who were only fit for excavators and scavengers, from motives of the purest philanthropy. John Thomas farther imagined the natural produce of the country was turf, potatoes and poteen; and the pastimes of the people burning barns, murdering landlords and taking an annual tithe of Protestant parsons with bludgeons and blunderbusses, instead of allowing them to take their scriptural dues. So much as a general outline of John Thomas's public opinions; as an individual demonstration of his more private feelings we will briefly say John Thomas loved pretty, plump Patty Pride, and, as somehow or other Hirishmen" with him were always interlopers, he fancied Con Sweeny kept up the national character, or rather want of it, by doing the same, and, therefore, as far as he could hate, John Thomas hated Con Sweeny. We say "as far as he could," because, despite his prejudices, John Thomas had a magnificent corner in his heart, which, like a rainbow, that offspring of a shower, still-born if unsmiled on by the genial sun, wanted but a seasonable opportunity to develope itself in all its glory. In person John Thomas was a model for, not Apollo's Belvidere " but, apropos, butlers. He lived well and his stout proportions, ponderous calves and rubicund nose, like honest witnesses as they were, unequivocally testified to the fact. His habiliments were of the" finest-extra-superdouble-milled-black kersey," manufactured into a broad-tailed coat, relieved by a curiously white vest, and supported by knee indispensables secured by five small buttons and a pair of conceited gold buckles over his unwrinkled sable silk stockings. So much for John Thomas. His Hirish rival, Con Sweeny-Con being a national condensation for Cornelius-was a daredevil-boy, of some four or five-and-twenty, with dark curling hair, saucy blue eyes, a somewhat wide and laughter-loving mouth, garnished with a row of as white "ivories" as ever furnished the opening in the head of a Galway lad. Like all his countrymen he was passionately fond of horses; a steeple chase was his nil ultra of amusement, and cleaning a regular rasper his sum of enjoyment; and many were the bright glances and sweet smiles bestowed upon Con Sweeny when mounted on one of the "Master's" thorough-breds, but no smile or glance had half the charm for the good-looking Irishman as the smiles and glances of pretty, plump Patty Pride; in fact to use his own words "he was bothered intirely by his love for the colleen." Patty Pride was black-eyed, rosy-cheeked and although plump, marvellously well-shaped: Brisk as a bee and light as a fairy," Tripping about on her little feet like a conceited young fawn, and singing as gaily and sweetly at her work as the hazel-eyed robin. It has been remarked by a gentleman of the name of Shakspeare, most libellously misrepresented by a wooden-headed effigy outside the Park Theatre, that "The course of true love never did run smooth." Our tale will prove no exception to this rule, the main cause of which-shame upon her for it-was pretty, plump Patty Pride's addiction to coquetry. She knew John Thomas loved her, and she knew Con Sweeny loved her, and she knew, by reason of certain legal restrictions, she could not conveniently marry both of them; therefore, she knew, or ought to have known, the most proper thing she could do was to make her election; and there was the difficulty that puzzled Patty Pride's brains. The more she argued the matter with herself the more she doubted. The pros and cons were sorely conflicting. John Thomas had the best place, but Con Sweeny had the best face. Con Sweeny could dance like an angel, but John Thomas had money in the bank! John Thomas might be steward, but Con Sweeny was thirty years the younger. Con Sweeny could sing like a lark and make love like-like-like-pshaw! why am I hunting for a simile when he can supply it—like an Irishman, but John Thomas hinted at a marriage settlement a silk gown and public-house. Under these conflicting circumstances Patty Pride went on doubting, and the arrow of love was converted into the shaft of discord; all the soft and feathery portion being offered by her gallants to Patty Pride, while the barb was alternately bandied from the heart of John Thomas to that of Con Sweeny, as either fancied his rival obtained some mark of attention which ought to have been bestowed upon himself. Thus precisely similar effects-though from different causes were visible in the upper and lower portions of the establishment; declining affection in the drawing rooms producing the same uneasiness in Sir Methusalah and Lady Rust, that incipient love in the servants' hall caused John Thomas, Con Sweeney and pretty, plump, Patty Pride. CHAPTER IV. THE LIBRARY AND YE LEGENDE ! "Open your ears, for which of you shall stop the vent of hearing When loud Rumor speaks ?"-Shak. 2d part" K. Hen. IV." "Can you not read it? is't not fair writ?"-" King John." Will our reader be kind enough to call to mind the parting of Sir Methusalah and Lady Rust, described in the conclusion of our opening chapter? Each the victim of ill temper and each brooding over fancied wrongs and insults. Sir Methusalah sought his library; my lady the drawing room. Temper! temper! what an allpowerful tormentor art thou! Under thy pernicious influence, the white and delicately moulded hand which swept the sweetest-toned harp in the kingdom, though tutored and admired by Bochsa, produced nothing but "Harsh discords and unpleasing sharps." The magnificent "Broadwood" was deprived of its harmony; the lovely lines of Moore converted into simple common place; the luxuries and elegancies of life, distorted into trammels and annoyances; and a really high-souled and kind-hearted woman transformed into a torment to herself and a plague to those around her. We will leave my lady gazing listlessly out upon the beautiful lawn in a state of metaphysical wonderment as to what on earth she was born for, and follow Sir Methusalah to the library. Seated in his luxurious easy chair, after having given vent to some vehement mutterings and dissatisfied grumblings, we find him poring over a large black letter volume of ancient legends. By degrees the lines of anger pass from his face and an expression of deep interest invests every feaSee! he has raised his head from the book; an hour has passed, and the legend is concluded. Hark! he speaks! ture. "Pshaw! stuff! nonsense! it cannot be; I won't believe it! Yet it certainly appears well attested. Strange! This very night! There can be no harm in making the experiment. I am determined-I'll watch!" And now Sir Methusalah has put on his hat and strolled forth in the direction of the village church. My Lady Rust, tired of her "own bad company," has entered the library; how listlessly she turns over the splendid volumes. She leaves the cases and approaches the table; her eyes fall on the quaint old black letter tome; in a few seconds they seem rivetted upon its open page, and with difficulty she manages to decipher the obsolete characters and reads aloud "YE LEGENDE OF SAINTE MARKE;" which for the benefit of our fair readers we render as follows: "Then wend your way to the church-yard drear, To guide your steps to the mouldering porch, Who will moulder low In their earthy home, if ye list and will, For such is the power as, all believe, Of a vigil kept on SAINT MARKE HIS EVE!" There are certainly strange chords in the human heart. The much discussed doctrine of essential sympathy has more foundation than its wholesale matter of fact decriers suppose; there are indeed More things in heaven and earth Than are dreamt of in your philosophy! A few hours precedent, the reading of the ghostly old legend would have excited in the mind of Lady Rust no emotion stronger than a smile at its extravagance, or a sneer at its absurd ity; now the words sank deeply into her heart of hearts." Again and again was the page perused, till every syllable was grafted on her memory, and strange thoughts flitted across her excited imagination. 'There is a latent love of the mysterious and supernatural planted in every human bosom. The schoolboy hurries with quick beating pulse and paling cheek past the last resting place of the quiet dead; the sturdy peasant half shudders at the melancholy whoop of the ill-omened owl; the tough-hearted mariner looks with indescribable awe upon the bright-eyed petrel, the supposed receptacle of his drowned messmate's soul; the ironnerved soldier counts with instinctive dread the ominous ticking of the death-watch, and the deep read scholar, despite his learned theories of causes and effects, has been compelled to confess an uneasy belief in supernatural appearances. Lady Rust was no exception to this general rule; yet Lady Rust exclaimed aloud "impossible!" without at all believing in the exclamation. A few moments were passed in solemn thought; the result was a resolution to test the truth of the saintly legend. Curiosity, with all its insatiate craving, was aroused; as well might another Pandora attempt to resist its promptings to open another box, or an extra Mistress Bluebeard defy its subtle sophistries as to the necessity for a survey of the fatal and forbidden chamber; it was as of yore omnipotent and Lady Rust determined to obey its dictates. "Perhaps she might see-" But we scorn to betray her ladyship's thoughts. CHAPTER V. THE SEXTON. "Hath this fellow no feeling? He sings at grave making."-Hamlet Among the many droppers-in at Rust Hall was grim Master Adam Mould, the village sexton. He was a tall, muscular and well-formed man, with high cheek bones, keen black eyes, iron-grey hair and crisp black whiskers. Adam Mould was more remarkable for the assiduity with which he attended to his duties in the church-yard, than his punctuality inside the church. It was his wont to loiter about on Sundays, viewing the result of his handy work, occasionally breaking out in some odd verse of an old sea song, till the memory of the Sabbath stopped him removing a stone from an already occupied grave, or walking slowly and admiringly round a new one, giving the rough edges a finishing touch, and, as it were, a friendly pat with the flat of his well-worn spade. That Adam Mould was a man of undoubted courage his being sexton fully proved; indeed it |