her for half a year, never leave her from morning till night, obey all her caprices, follow all her whims, and listen to all the abuse which falls from her infernal tongue. Do this, and I ask no more of you: I will deliver myself up at the appointed time."

Not Lord G the House, - not Mr. Cartlitch of Astley's Amphitheatre in his most pathetic passages, could look more crestfallen, and howl more hideously, than Diabolus did now. "Take another year, Gambouge," screamed he; "two more ten more century; roast me on Lawrence's gridiron, boil me in holy water: but don't ask that. Don't, don't ask me to live with Mrs. Gambouge!"

when flogged by Lord B— in

a

Simon smiled sternly. "I have said it," he cried : "do this, or our contract is at an end."

The Devil, at this, grinned so horribly, that every drop of beer in the house turned sour; he gnashed his teeth so frightfully, that every person in the company well-nigh fainted with the colic. He slapped down the great parchment upon the floor, trampled upon it madly, and lashed it with his hoofs and his tail; at last, spreading out a mighty pair of wings as wide as from here to Regent Street, he slapped

Gambouge with his tail over one eye, and vanished abruptly through the keyhole.

Gambouge screamed with pain, and started up. "You drunken, lazy scoundrel!" cried a shrill and well-known voice, "you have been asleep these two hours;" and here he received another terrific box on the ear.

It was too true, he had fallen asleep at his work; and the beautiful vision had been dispelled by the thumps of the tipsy Griskinissa. Nothing remained to corroborate his story, except the bladder of lake, and this was spurted all over his waistcoat and breeches.

"I wish," said the poor fellow, rubbing his tingling cheeks, "that dreams were true;" and he went to work again at his portrait.

My last accounts of Gambouge are, that he has left the arts, and is footman in a small family. Mrs. Gambouge takes in washing; and it is said that her continual dealings with soap-suds and hot water have been the only things in life which have kept her from spontaneous combustion.

HE Lady Rohesia lay on her death-bed. So said the doctor; and doctors are generally allowed to be judges in these matters; besides, Dr. Butts was the court physician: he carried a crutch-handled staff, with its cross of the blackest ebony, — raison de plus.

"Is there no hope, doctor?" said Beatrice Grey. "Is there no hope?" said Everard Ingoldsby. "Is there no hope?" said Sir Guy de Montgomeri. He was the Lady Rohesia's husband: he spoke the last.

The doctor shook his head. He looked at the disconsolate widower in posse, then at the hour-glass: its waning sand seemed sadly to shadow forth the sinking pulse of his patient. Dr. Butts was a very learned man. "Ars longa, vita brevis!" said Dr. Butts.

210

"I am very sorry to hear it," quoth Sir Guy de Montgomeri.

Sir Guy was a brave knight, and a tall; but he was no scholar.

"Alas, my poor sister!" sighed Ingoldsby.

"Alas, my poor mistress!" sobbed Beatrice.

Sir Guy neither sighed nor sobbed his grief was too deep-seated for outward manifestation.

"And how long, doctor"

band could not finish the sentence.

The afflicted hus

Dr. Butts withdrew his hand from the wrist of the dying lady. He pointed to the horologe: scarcely a quarter of its sand remained in the upper moiety. Again he shook his head. The eye of the patient waxed dimmer, the rattling in the throat increased.

"What's become of Father Francis?" whimpered Beatrice.

"The last consolations of the church" suggested Everard.

A darker shade came over the brow of Sir Guy. "Where is the confessor?" continued his grieving brother-in-law.

"In the pantry," cried Marion Hacket pertly, as she tripped down stairs in search of that venerable ecclesiastic, "in the pantry, I warrant me." The bower-woman was not wont to be in the wrong: in the pantry was the holy man discovered - at his devotions.

“Pax vobiscum!" said Father Francis, as he entered the chamber of death.

"Vita brevis!" retorted Dr. Butts. He was not a man to be browbeat out of his Latin, and by a Had it been a bishop inabbot, - but a miserable

paltry Friar Minim, too. deed, or even a mitred Franciscan!

"Benedicite!" said the friar.

"Ars longa!" returned the leech.

Dr. Butts adjusted the tassels of his falling band, drew his short sad-colored cloak closer around him, and, grasping his cross-handled walking-staff, stalked majestically out of the apartment. Father Francis had the field to himself.

The worthy chaplain hastened to administer the last rites of the church. To all appearance he had little time to lose. As he concluded, the dismal toll of the passing-bell sounded from the belfrytower: little Hubert, the bandy-legged sacristan, was pulling with all his might. It was a capital contrivance that same passing-bell, which of the Urbans or Innocents invented it is a query; but,