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Regularly done!” said Paterson, removing his hold of the patrico's chin, and looking as blank as a cartridge.

"Ay,"exclaimed Coates; "all owing to this worthless piece of carrion. If it were not that I hope to see him dangling from those walls” (pointing towards the castle), “I should wish her master were by her side now. To the dogs with her.” And he was about to spurn the breathless carcass of poor Bess, when a sudden blow, dealt by the patrico's staff, felled him to the ground.

“ I'll teach you to molest me," said Balthazar, about to attack Paterson.

“ Come, come, said the discomfited chief constable, “no more of this. It's plain we're in the wrong box. Every bone in my body aches sufficiently without the aid of your cudgel, old fellow. Come, Mr. Coates, take my arm, and let's be moving. We've had an infernal long ride for nothing.”

“Not so," replied Coates; “I've paid pretty dearly for it. However, let us see if we can get any breakfast at the Bowling Green, yonder ; though I've already had my morning draught, added the facetious man of law, looking at his dripping apparel.

“ Poor Black Bess !” said Major Mowbray, wistfully regarding the body of the mare, as it lay stretched at his feet. “ Thou deservedst a better fate and a better master. In thee Dick Turpin has lost his best friend. His exploits will, henceforth, want the coloring of romance, which thy unfailing energies threw over them. Light lie the ground over thee, thou matchless mare!”

To the Bowling Green the party proceeded, leaving the patrico in undisturbed possession to the lifeless body of Black Bess. Major Mowbray ordered a substantial repast to be prepared with all possible expedition.

A countryman in a smock frock was busily engaged at his morning's meal.

“ To see that fellow bolt down his breakfast, one would think he had fasted for a month,” said Coates; “see the wholesome effects of an honest, industrious life, Paterson. I envy him his appetite — I should fall to with more zest were Dick Turpin in his place."

The countryman looked up. He was an odd-looking fellow, with a terrible squint, and a strange, contorted countenance.

“An ugly dog!" exclaimed Paterson; "what a devil of a twist he has got!

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“What's that you says about Dick Taarpin, measter ? " asked the countryman, with his mouth half full of bread.

“Have you seen aught of him?" asked Coates.

“Not I," mumbled the rustic; “but I hears aw the folk hereabouts talk on him. They say as how he sets all the lawyers and constables at defiance, and laughs in his sleeve at their efforts to cotch him — ha, ha! He gets over more ground in a day than they do in a week - ho, ho !”

“That's all over now,” said Coates, peevishly. “He has cut his own throat - ridden his famous mare to death.”

The countryman almost choked himself, in the attempt to bolt a huge mouthful. • Ay — indeed, measter! How happened that?" asked he, so soon as he recovered speech.

“ The fool rode her from London to York last night," returned Coates; “such a feat was never performed before. What horse could be expected to live through such work as that?"

“Ah, he were a foo' to attempt that,” observed the countryman; “but you followed belike?”

6
“ We did.”

“And took him arter all, I reckon ?" asked the rustic, squinting more horribly than ever.

“ No," returned Coates, “ I can't say we did; but we'll have him yet. I'm pretty sure he can't be far off. We may be nearer him than we imagine.”

“Maybe so, measter," returned the countryman; “but might I be so bold as to ax how many horses you used i' the

' chase — some half dozen, maybe?”

“Half a dozen !” growled Paterson ; "we had twenty at the least.”

“And I ONE!” mentally ejaculated Turpin, for he was the countryman.

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[NOTE. - While Turpin is genuine,- he was hanged at Tyburn in 1739,ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

the horse and the ride to York are the invention of that notable Bohemian littérateur, William Maginn, the “Morgan Odoherty” of the early Blackwood's and the “Noctes Ambrosianæ," and the “Captain Shandon ” of “ Pendennis.” Its widespread currency, however, is due to Ainsworth's story.]

BY THOMAS GRAY.

[Thomas GRAY was born in London in 1716 ; educated at Eton and Cambridge and studied for the bar. He then became intimate with Horace Walpole, and accompanied him in his tour of Europe, returning alone in 1741. In 1741 he published his Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College," and in 1751 his ever-famous “Elegy written in a Country Churchyard." His most ambitious poem is “The Bard,” published in 1757, in which year he was offered, but declined, the office of laureate, vacant by the death of Cibber. In 1768 he was appointed professor of modern history at Cambridge. He died July 30, 1771.)

YE distant spires, ye antique towers,

That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful Science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade;
And ye, that from the stately brow,
Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below,

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way:

Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade!

Ah, fields beloved in vain!
Where once my careless childhood strayed,

A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales that from ye

blow
A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe.
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen

Full many a sprightly race
Disporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace;
Who foremost now delight to cleave,
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave ?

The captive linnet which enthrall ?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,

Or urge the flying ball ?
VOL. XVII. -6

While some on earnest business bent

Their murmuring labors ply 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty :
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry:
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,

And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigor born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light,

That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom

The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,

Nor care beyond to-day:
Yet see, how all around 'em wait
The ministers of human fate

And black Misfortune's baleful train ! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murth’rous band !

Ah, tell them, they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear,

The vultures of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart; And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,

And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

Then whirl the wretch from high,

To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,

And grinning Infamy.
The sting of Falsehood those shall try,
And hard Unkindness' altered eye,

That mocks the tear it forced to flow;
And keen Remorse with blood defiled,
And moody Madness laughing wild

Amid severest woe.
Lo! in the vale of years beneath

A grisly troop are seen,
The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their queen:
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every laboring sinew strains,

Those in the deeper vitals rage:
Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,

And slow-consuming Age.
To each his sufferings: all are men,

Condemned alike to groan;
The tender for another's pain,

Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies?
Thought would destroy their Paradise,
No more; - where ignorance is bliss,

-
'Tis folly to be wise.

ODE ON THE SPRING.

BY THOMAS GRAY.

Lo! Where the rosy-bosomed Hours,

Fair Venus' train, appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers

And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat Responsive to the cuckoo's note,

The untaught harmony of Spring: While, whispering pleasures as they fly, Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky

Their gathered fragrance fling.

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