could he mean? There was a sly mockery in his countenance as he exclaimed, "I'll make you know me!" and throwing up his heels, he turned three or four somersets, nor ceased until he had poked one foot clean through a map of London, making a greater hole in the Thames than ever the tunnel had done, and demolishing both St. Paul's and the Bank, and the whole neighbourhood of Cheapside. I knew him instantly, not by his face, but his feet; there was no mistaking those old familiar legs-they looked all the better for wear: had he but presented them instead of his face at first, I should at once have recognised my old friend, Tumbling Tommy. Those very legs which were so despised, which every neighbour prophesied would be his ruin, had carried him safely through a great portion of the world. Dons, and grandees, and monsieurs, and mademoiselles had showered down their plaudits upon them; they had procured him a new name, had acquired a thousand foreign tricks, and won for their owner good store of gold. From the day he joined the mountebanks, his whole life had been one series of fortunate events-he only tumbled to rise the higher, keeping, no doubt, in mind that line of old Bunyan's— "He that is down needs fear no fall." 105 MARY GRAY. Fear no more the lightning flash, Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must SHAKSPEARE. THE story I am about to relate is one of almost everyday occurrence; a simple tale of one who was young and beautiful, and loved, and died. Every town, every village, nay, almost every street of any extent, could furnish materials for such a story as I am about to tell. A thousand heads are now tossing on uneasy pillows, beset with painful thoughts that chase away all rest; a thousand hearts are aching and breaking in silent chambers, the story of whose griefs will never be uttered. The grave will close over all their sorrows, the sun will rise and set, moonlight and darkness will chase each other over their "narrow homes," thousands will pause to peruse the "uncouth rhymes " on their rude headstones, but not a tongue can record their sufferings. How many faces do we pass daily on which grief has imprinted her image! How many sighs are heaved hourly, fraught with love and pity, and painful remembrances, and hopes, and prospects blighted, that die on the weary air! How many beautiful homesteads do we pass standing in lovely spots, on hill, or valley, or flowery lawn, decorated by the master-hand of nature! spots so sweet that we might deem that death came not there -yet even while we are gazing, perchance there are hearts breaking within. I had been absent several months from the village when I took the advantage of a fine day in June to revisit it, and to have a little gossip with a few of my old acquaintance. As I wandered along over the fair meadows that stretch beside the River Trent, the slow solemn tones of a death-bell smote my ear, and came with a strange sound, amid all the beauty and sunshine of that sweet summer scene. I entered the first cottage in the village, and was not long before I had gathered some particulars of the story of the deceased, which to me was very interesting, through having seen her before. But I will attempt to give a portion of our conversation, for in a tale of the heart the simplicity and earnestness of an old woman outdoes all author-craft. "And how old might she be, Betty ?" inquired I, tasting of the old woman's home-brewed beer, for no greater offence can you offer them, after a long absence, than to refuse taking refreshment. "Nineteen next reaping-time ;-try a bit of that kiss. ing crust," added she, taking as much interest in my wants as I did in her narrative; "I am afeard that loaf's rather too high baked; bon that Lucy, I left her to mind them on th' hearth, while I went down to Sally Penny's to talk about poor Mary Gray. But everybody loved her; it would have done your heart good to see how the children used to run after her, and scream and cry to go to her. Ay, the very crossest used to be as still as mice if she only took them, and would snuzzle to her, or look up into her sweet face, and seem a deal more pleased with gazing on it than they would have been with all the playthings you could have brought 'em fra a fair." "So you believe the young squire loved her?" continued I, occasionally swallowing a mouthful of bread and cheese just to keep the old woman in humour, and prevent her importuning me and interrupting the story. "Loved her!" echoed the old woman, as if indignant at my daring to doubt it for a moment. "Loved her! an angel fra heaven would have loved her! she was such a sweet temper, and so gentle, and so pretty; I often said she was too good for this sinful world. Yes, Henry did love her with all his heart; none of your fly-by-sky love was his, but such love as they loved with in those old-fashioned times when they used to die for one another if they couldn't be made happy. But his father was a rogue-it will come home by him, though, for both their sakes; this year, they say, all his corn looks very sickly, and only the other day he had a cow and calf died;-bless you, he'll never prosper. Do you know he threatened to turn Henry out of doors if he ever saw Mary again, and to disinherit him, and all for loving her. But his uncle said he shouldn't want, and he bought Henry a something in the army-I forget what they call it, it's something like missionary;— however, it made him a fine officer, and he went to join his regiment, but the thoughts of leaving Mary preyed so upon his heart, that together with thinking of her, and being in a low way, through what his father had said, why, poor dear young man, he died." And the old woman applied the corner of her checked apron to her eyes, for they were overflowing with tears. "What then?" said I, after having sat for several minutes in silence. "There was nothing then," replied the old woman, "nothing but for her to die also, and yet it's a marvel how long she bore up. The news of Henry's death came one Sunday. Mary, as usual, had been to church; but it was noticed by many that she never sang that morning; I believe she felt a foreboding that something was about to happen,-I have myself, aforetime, had a kind of doley feeling,-one sighs and goes moping about here and there like an ill-sitting hen. But, as I was saying, when she came home from church there was a letter for her. Old John Key,-you know the old man that brings all our letters from Gainsborough, -well, he brought it on Saturday night, but as it was sealed with black, and he'd half a suspicion from where it came, he thought, as he said, he would let her go to church first, as a blessed discourse often makes one bear troubles much better than we could without; to the good it's what a dram is to dram-drinkers. Well, as I was saying, Mary came in,-I happened to be there; her mother had had a pain in her side, so she had sent to me for a little of my syrup of gillyflowers. Poor girl! she never spoke; she looked at her mother, then at the letter;-you know how she used to look with those large soft eyes of hers;-poor thing! it seemed as if she knew what there was in the letter; then she turned pale as a snow-drop, and her hands trembled like silk-grass: she went up stairs without speaking. She hadn't been there above a minute or two before she fell on the floor-she gave a deep groan -only one it was loud enough to break her poor heart clean in two. There she lay quite senseless; we were a long while bringing her to herself again; the letter was in her hand; I just caught a gleg at it—it was written crooked, as if a person's hand had trembled a very deal while writing it; it wasn't at all like what Sloppy-kicky Briggs used to set our Jack for copy at school, I could remember all there was in the letter, and part of another which came with it from the colonel." |