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honourable gentlemen might with safety venture out, providing they took upon themselves the station and dignity of "Guys;" in this imposing character they might take air and exercise, either as pedestrians, or armed cap-à-pie on asses, or in vans, by which means they might make a tour by day, and enjoy a cheap "flare-up" at night. Of this proposition many honourable gentlemen approved, and a select group agreed to go "Guying" on the next anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot.

The glasses and tankards of the few remaining strangers having been replenished, prior to their departure, the members of the Hard-up fraternity hummed in concert the following ditty:

The bailiffs are coming, oh dear! oh dear!
The bailiffs are coming, oh dear! oh dear!
I dare not stir out, for I feel very queer,

The bailiffs are coming, oh dear! oh dear!

With these to them-feeling words vibrating on their lips, honourable gentlemen retired by threes from the Bugle Horn, without appointing a place for the next gathering of the honourable and learned craft.

The steam-boats, the Greenwich railway, and omnibuses, having ceased running when honourable members set out for the metropolis, they were obliged to perform the journey on foot, which they cheerfully did, and safely arrived at their respective domiciles ere their much-dreaded foes, the officers of the sheriff of Surrey and Middlesex, set forth in quest of their daily prey.

VOL. XX.

ODE ON THE BLACKBIRD.

BY E. E. M. K.

SING on! glad spirit of the dying storm,

Thou comest like dear Hope to hearts in woe,
Like daring zephyrs when March days grow warm,
Or flowers that venture through the ling'ring snow.
Sing on, sing on! for I could listen now

Till downy slumber stay thy gushing song-
Till thou art mute upon the midnight bough,
And o'er yon sky the golden wonders throng.
The smell of mould—of balm—of briony-
Of roses scattered by the ruthless rain-
Of drenched acacias and the fragrant pea-
Comes floating to me with thy genial strain.
And I can see the liquid lustre run

Down the curl'd edges of each saddened leaf-
A thousand diamonds gathered into one,

Like those large tears that swell the eye of grief.

Fast in the gloom the tempest's radiant zone,
The blazing rainbow, drops in showers away,
As if some spirit down its arch had flown,
And fann'd the pageant into swift decay.

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Still howls the wind through many a leaden rift,
And still the thunder mutters in its flight.
Still the pale lily fears her face to lift-

Still frighted cattle shun eve's angry light.

But thou, bold songster, nought can baffle thee!
Nought can thy wild full-hearted joy restrain,
Brave art thou, bird, as martyr-saint might be-
Brave and how joyous in that lonely strain!
Oh! could I now to thy sweet teaching bend-
Take the wise lesson to my heart, for aye-
To every woe 'twould some kind solace lend,
And gild with sunshine fate's most cloudy day.
Could I with thee, amid the glooms of life,

With gentle voice all meekly tuned to love,
Regardless whether 'tis through calm or strife,
Chant hymns of praise to holy ears above!
Could I but learn the bright serenity

That bids thee warble through the discord round-
Could I but taste the peace that dwells with thee-
'Twould lend existence raptures yet unfound!
Sing on, sing on! for now the storm is dead!
I know it by yon gush of saffron light,
That, like a glory, down the hills is spread-
By yon blue isle that laughs out into sight.
I know it by this timid moth that flies

Athwart the lattice with unbruisèd wing—
By colours kindling in the western skies-

By honied murmurs where the woodbines cling.

By all the voices of the summer eve,

The vesper warblings in each neighbouring laneSuch dainty music as I do believe

Might wake Eurydice to life again.

Sing on, sing on! for now thy cadence high,
Like inspiration in some poet-mind,

Hath tuned to sweetness Nature's merest sigh,
Nor left one discord lurking faint behind.

'Tis harmony's true throne, this blushful eve,

Draped with warm skies, and cushioned soft on flowers,
Whose fresh, bright lips with dewy murmurs weave
A slumbrous chanting through the twilight hours.

Sing on, sing on! thou dauntless soul of love!
Already dawns the guerdon of thy faith-
Peace, bliss, and beauty-while the mystic dove
Her latest lullaby around thee saith.

Sing on! yet, no; for now the night-bird wakes,
And thy proud notes, like oozings of rich wine,
Drop feebly forth; a drowsy bliss o'ertakes

Thee in thy mirth, and I am left to pine!

So will I close the lattice, for I would

No voice but thine about my dreams should thrill. Methinks these hours with thee and solitude

Have left me strengthened for each coming ill.

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FOR Some time Florence remained sitting on the bank exactly where Wentworth had left her, and was only roused by her sister's calling to her in a voice of distress, and asking her what was the matter.

"Do not cry, dear Florence," said the child, putting her arms round her; "I cannot bear to see you so sad. Surely Captain Wentworth has not been speaking unkindly to you, has he?"

Florence could not answer for sobs, and Adela, after making one or two more vain attempts to comfort her, sat down beside her and wept also. After a few minutes, however, the child exclaimed,

"Oh, dear Florence, think of what Lady Seagrove will say when she finds you have been crying so!"

These words had the effect of recalling Florence to herself. She started up, and exclaiming, "You are right, Adela, we will go home;" took the little girl by the hand and walked on.

Seeing that her sister was calmer, the child again timidly but anxiously inquired whether Wentworth had been unkind to her, that she was so sad.

"No, dear,” replied Florence, in a trembling voice; "he never was, and I am sure never could be unkind to me; but he is going away, Adela— going away for a long, long time; perhaps for ever-perhaps we may never see him again."

The child looked in her face with an expression of concern. "But why does he go, Florence?" she asked at length.

"Because he thinks it right, Adela," faltered her sister.

"Well, never mind, my darling Florence," said the little girl, tenderly. "He will come back; I am sure he will come back; so, dear, dear Florence, do not cry any more."

"Do I look as if I had been crying very much, Adela ?" asked Florence, when they had walked on a little further.

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"Why yes, dear, you do, rather," replied the child.

"But, perhaps,

you don't cry any more, Lady Seagrove will not take any notice of it; or, at least, she will think you only cried a little because she was angry with you."

Florence trembled at the thought of what Lady Seagrove's displeasure would be if she knew of the interview with Captain Wentworth which had occurred that morning. Had Lady Seagrove been a different sort of person, Florence would have gladly confided to her all that had passed; but as it was, although her frank and open-hearted nature revolted from the thought of concealment, she felt that to confess the truth to her guardian was impossible. She hoped that she should not be questioned

that Lady Seagrove would be too much preoccupied either to remark her tears or the length of time she had been absent.

"Miss Trimmer will be sorry she was not with us, when she hears we have seen Captain Wentworth," presently observed Adela.

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Adela," said Florence, "unless you are asked, do not mention, either to Miss Trimmer or to any one else, that we have seen Captain Wentworth to-day. I have a reason for this, which I will tell you at some future time."

The child promised to do as she was desired, and they soon afterwards arrived at home. Florence did not see Lady Seagrove until dinner-time. She was struck by the extreme coldness and even sternness of her manner towards herself. There was an almost entire silence during the repast; even the loquacious Miss Trimmer spoke in monosyllables. As the trio were crossing the hall, on their way to the drawing-room, Florence, who for some time had with difficulty repressed her tears, ventured to lay her hand on Lady Seagrove's arm, and say,

"I hope, dear Lady Seagrove, you are not angry with me."

But her guardian only answered by turning coldly from her, and continued to maintain the same demeanour. The evening passed slowly and sadly to the poor girl. She seated herself at a table and tried to read, but her tears fell thick and fast on the volume before her. She was glad when the hour for retiring to rest arrived, and she saw Lady Seagrove rise from the sofa on which she had been sitting, engaged in a whispered conversation with Miss Trimmer, and take up one of the lighted candles which a servant had just brought into the room. Florence determined not to retire for the night without learning, or at least endeavouring to learn, the cause of this increased displeasure, which she felt sure was not owing entirely to her rejection of Sir Robert. When she had received, instead of a kind embrace as usual, a cold and formal "Good night," she begged, in a timid and trembling voice, to know in what manner she had had the misfortune to offend. Lady Seagrove for some time refused to answer her; but Florence persisted in her entreaties with so much earnestness, that she seemed somewhat softened, and was on the point of yielding, when Miss Trimmer stepped up and whispered a few words.

"Go to your room, Florence," said Lady Seagrove, as sternly as ever; "you do not deserve to be answered."

"Miss Trimmer, this is your doing !" exclaimed Florence, indignantly.

"My doing, Florenth?" cried Miss Trimmer. "Good Heaventh, what do you mean? Lady Theagrove, do you hear how she ith accuthing me?"

"Can you wonder at my thus accusing you, Miss Trimmer?" said Florence," when I have good reason to think that, but for your interference, Lady Seagrove would have granted me the explanation for which I am so anxious."

Miss Trimmer answered by bursting into tears.

"I did not ecthpect thuch unkindneth from you, Florenth," she sobbed, as she leaned her face against a sofa cushion; "thuch injuthtice

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I have been neither unkind nor unjust to you, Miss Trimmer," replied Florence, in a grave and decided manner, "and you know that I have not; so pray leave off weeping, and suffer me to speak to Lady Seagrove."

But it was not Miss Trimmer's humour to leave off weeping; and Lady Seagrove's whole attention was soon engrossed in endeavouring to console her favourite. At length, after again whispering with her for some moments, she turned to Florence and said,

"In answer to your inquiry, I will tell you that I know a great deal more concerning you, and a person whose name I need not mention, than you think; that I am aware of your intentions, and, let it cost what it may, will prevent their execution. Do not speak; I will not hear a word; but go to your room instantly, and do not leave it without my permission."

Florence turned pale at this address. Could her conversation with Wentworth have been overheard? She felt certain that no one was near them at the time. And what did Lady Seagrove mean by "her intentions?"

She stood for some minutes silent and motionless, uncertain what to say or do. When she again looked round her both Lady Seagrove and Miss Trimmer were gone.

Slowly and mechanically she took up a lighted taper, and went up-stairs to her own room.

She passed a sleepless night, and rose early in the morning with the intention of refreshing herself with a walk in the park. But on going to the door of her dressing-room, she found that she could not open it. It seemed to be fastened on the outside.

"And yet," she said to herself, "that is impossible. be the matter with the lock. I will try once more."

Something must

She did so, and as it still resisted her efforts she sat down with a book in her hand, to wait patiently until seven o'clock, at which hour her maid always came to call her, in case she had not already risen.

A little before the expected time the door was opened, not by her maid but by Miss Trimmer; the sight of whom, especially as that lady rarely rose before nine or ten o'clock, caused her some surprise.

"What is the meaning of this, Miss Trimmer?" said Florence, who had heard her unlock the door previous to entering, and who suddenly remembered Lady Seagrove's injunction of the preceding evening, not to quit her room without permission.

"Lady Theagrove doth not with you to take any more walkth before breakfatht, my dear," replied the favourite; "and ath it wath late when she went to bed, and the did not like to dithturb you, the dethired me jutht to turn the key, and come and ecthplain in the morning. For the future, she will be thatithfied with your word of honour."

"And why am I to be thus kept a prisoner ?" exclaimed Florence. "A prithoner, my dear! That, allow me to thay, ith an ecthtraordinary word to come from a young lady'th lipth ath applied to herthelf." "Not if she is treated as I am-locked into her room like a refractory child, and forbid to take a walk in the garden without permission. I will go this instant to Lady Seagrove, and

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"Go to Lady Theagrove, my dear! And before theven o'clock! Thuch a protheeding would half kill her ladythip in the prethent delicate thate of her nervth. The eventh of yethterday were too much for her, and she theemed tho overpowered latht night that I perthuaded her to allow me

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