The body, dreadfully convulsed, ascended but slowly; more men seized the rope the head of the victim struck heavily against the iron,-with one pull more, it was across it and the neck broken. Loud cries of exultation hailed the appearance of the body as it swung darkly to and fro. "To his house,-to Aldgate !" shouted the beggar ;-" To Aldgate!" said the smith, whirling his hammer, as though he were already forcing a door. "To Aldgate, to Aldgate!" rang from mouth to mouth. And away rushed the mob to complete their work by destroying the house and property of the murdered Jew.

Miriam still lay on the spot where she fell when her father was torn from her arms. The mob, in their hurry to run off to Aldgate, had taken no further notice of her, and her situation was unheeded by the few people who still lingered near the body. No sooner was the entrance to his house sufficiently cleared, than Gilbert Cornewaile, assisted by his drawers, conveyed the unfortunate girl into his house. "What though she were a Jewess?" he kindly said; "she was still flesh and blood like himself. She had done bravely in risking her life to save her father, and 'twas a mercy she had not suffered with him. He had a daughter of his own; but the hussey cared little for her old father, and went gadding about with that scapegrace, Osbert the falconer— bang him! His dame would look to poor Miriam."

And where was Bonomye all this time? From the moment he recognised Reuben, he had viewed the whole proceeding in speechless terror, but it was for his own safety; and if another thought at any time divided the miser's attention, it was the remembrance of his lost shekels. The appearance of Miriam at first led him to think that her father might be saved; but he witnessed the affecting exertions of the child to rescue her miserable parent from death without emotion and without a tear. Gladly did his heart beat when, by the death of Reuben and the retreat of the mob, he was relieved from all apprehension for himself, and saw the road open for his escape. As for the stranger to whom he clung, he maintained throughout the same cold demeanour that had marked him from the first; and Bonomye, who never for a moment quitted his hold of him, did not perceive that he was in any degree affected by the tragedy. He spoke not, his arm trembled not, he never changed his place but when the sway of the crowd compelled him, and altogether had the air of one who contemplated a scene rendered indifferent to him by habit.

No sooner was the road clear, than he resumed his former rapid pace, dragging the still trembling Bonomye along with him. Nor did the Jew bestow a thought upon the situation of Miriam : he was too selfish, too anxious to get away, to waste a moment upon her. The stranger was silent until he reached the bottom of the street; when he observed,

"These Londoners are a fierce set, Jew! Didst know the man they have hanged? Thou wouldst have spoken, but that I checked thee." "Verily," said Bonomye, “ I knew him well. We met oft with the changers in Lombard-street, and he owed me monies that I can ill spare."

"What! money again, man! Hast thou no other thought but of thy gold? Say, dost think the man was innocent? He looked not like a night-brawler or cut-throat."

"He who knoweth all things only can tell," replied the Jew: “ I would not answer for any one. 'Tis hard for a poor man to lose that

which it costs so much to get. Two hundred marks," said he, talking to himself, "two hundred, good tale and weight-truly I am a miserable man!"

"Tush, man, with marks! Is it not harder for a guiltless man to lose his life than for a vile miser like thee to lose a few pieces? I warrant me, they did him more good than would ever have come of them in thy hands. Did not the girl beg nobly for her father ?— Speak, man!"

"Ay! yes; you speak well. I had forgot; they call her Miriam," said Bonomye, aroused from another reverie on his lost marks. "She is fair to look upon, but methought Reuben lent too much unto her vanities; he was but a poor man. He would oft speak of the craft of the Gentile, and yet lent too ready an ear to every idle tale of want or misery; and he clothed his daughter in costly stuffs, such as are not for the women of our people in these days of sorrow. Mayhap, had he not yielded unto her worldly desires he would not have borrowed my silver: two hundred-'twas but a while since that he bought a goodly string of pearls from Adam of Shoreditch, the goldsmith, for the maiden to bind her hair. Verily, it grieved me to see so many broad pieces cast away, that might have been out at usance, to the profit of her father. If they seize not his goods, those pearls might repay me.-But, stay! will not Master Albert wonder that we tarry so long?"

"Truly, Jew," said the stranger, "thou art a man of stone, and accursed, for thou hast no heart and as for Albert, he will wait thy coming and mine, though it may be sooner than he would."

"How say you? Did you not tell me that your errand was from him, that he would speak with me about the monies ?"

""Twere better not to speak so loud," replied his companion. "What I said was to suit my purpose. We will talk more of it on the bridge."

The bridge gate was now before them,-a tall, embattled tower, that cut off all access to the bridge but through the arch in its centre, defended by a portcullis, the grinning teeth of which were visible beneath the groove into which it slid. A lamp, suspended from the roof of the passage, shed a feeble light for a few paces; and beyond all was darkness, save the faint ray that glimmered through the western window of the chapel of St. Thomas on the centre of the bridge, proceeding from the taper that burned before the altar. The place was dismal, gloomy, and cold, for the wind swept keenly across the bridge, and Bonomye, whose fears were once more awakened by the last speech of the stranger, thought the sharpness of the blast was beyond anything he had ever felt. The water, which could not be discerned for the fog, rippled heavily against the starlings, and a heavy mist was still falling. The Jew could not help thinking that his companion, who now turned into one of the angular projections of the platform, a few yards from the chapel, had chosen a very uncomfortable spot to converse in: he pulled his gaberdine closer around him, and inquired, with a shiver, if they had not better stand more under the shelter of the chapel side.

'No; some of the dotards may be at their prayers and overhear us," said the stranger. "If thou art cold, man, take my cloak; I need it not."

Bonomye did not refuse this offer, and, muffled in its ample folds, with his back turned to the wind, he waited for his companion to begin the conversation..

"You owe Boccanigro and his friends twelve thousand marks, Jew, -so I heard from his own lips this morning, and you know not how to repay them: is it so?"

"Most true; but I thought I was to speak with Master Albert himself thereupon, or I—"

66

"-Would not have left home," answered his companion with a laugh. "I give thee credit, Jew; but with Albert you cannot treat, and you must answer me !"

"Doubtless I can repay him, if Master Nicholas de Basing

"Do all thy hopes rest on 'ifs,' man? Why, then, to end them, I tell thee, Basing will not-nay, cannot help thee; that thou hast no one to trust in but me!"

"Friend," said Bonomye, summoning up resolution, "you speak as knowing all things. I do not despair of Master Basing; but-but, if you can stand me in his stead, I may not refuse to treat with you. Albeit, know you not—”

"You must treat with me, whatever my terms may be, if you would save yourself," said the stranger, with the same sneering laugh. "Albert has thy bond in his keeping: what wouldst thou risk to obtain possession of it, and the means to satisfy the king?"

Bonomye, more and more startled at the extent of his companion's knowledge and the tenor of his conversation, was silent.

"I would have thy answer, Jew."

"Though to regain my bond would serve me much, I see not how it may be done honestly," added Bonomye, pausing.

"Does he

"Does Bonomye, the usurer, talk of honesty?" remarked the stranger, with the laugh that the Jew disliked so much. think he has any character to lose? Why, man, couldst thou hear what folks say of thee, and something thou must have heard,-thy speech would not be of honesty. They who know thee curse thee; and they who do not, when they hear others tell of thy ways, curse too, and wonder that one so vile has lived so long.-Honesty, forsooth! Ha! ha!"

"Friend, I know not what you would have me do. I like not your speech; it savours of temptation."

"Well then, Jew, if thou art so dull, keep thy honesty, and thy charity too, for thou hast as much of the one as of the other. But, when the foreigner asks his monies of thee, and thou hast not wherewith to pay him, and the Royal leech would suck thee too; when thy tale of poverty is derided; when the tormentor is agonising thy vile body, and a horrid death stares thee in the face; try if thy honesty can soothe pain, or make death less terrible. And if thou shouldst yet live, but in want, what will it do for thee? Men will say as thou crawlest along the street, See, that is Bonomye; he that was the rich, the hard-hearted usurer, who knew no pity: is he not justly served?' and they will spit on thee, and thy honesty."

The stranger had now renewed in Bonomye all his former fears, and brought to his recollection all the thoughts that had agitated him in the morning. He stood trembling and irresolute. He felt there was some sinister meaning beneath his companion's words. He had a presentiment of evil, and would have fled from it had he known how. But there was the man standing darkly before him like some malignant spirit, and the Jew fancied he could see his eyes flash through the darkness. Below them the river flowed sullenly along: he was but a

weak man, the stranger strong and active, the parapet low,—one push would send him over. Bonomye could see no hope of escape. And then his gold; how was he to be saved from misery? It was a terrible moment for the Jew. Great was the mental struggle; despite the cold and rain, the perspiration stood on his brow, his teeth chattered, and his whole frame was shaken. He revolved again and again the circumstances in which he was placed, and "Alas!" saith the Chronicle, "the small remains of honesty and good intent were dispersed by the love of Mammon." Bonomye inquired faintly what the stranger would have him do.

"Hark you: Albert is mine enemy; he is your creditor; I would have revenge, you your bond, and," bending his head till the words fell on Bonomye's ear in a low whisper, "he must die, and that this night."

Bonomye, whose agitation had subsided into that species of desperate resolution which looks not to consequences, and is always greater in proportion to the indecision that precedes it, listened to this proposition without a shudder: he could scarcely believe that he was himself the same man who, a few moments before, had trembled at mere insinuations. However, he did not reply.

"Has Bonomye's virtue conquered his love of gold and life?" inquired the stranger with a sneer.

"Can we escape without suspicion?"

"I will conduct thee back to thy dwelling."

*

The next morning, Albert de Boccanigro was found murdered in his house in Southwark. By his side was Bonomye, the Jew: in one hand he still held the knife with which he had effected the deed; the other grasped his bond, which he had taken from Albert's chest, that lay open on the floor: and there were several bags of money near him, prepared for removal.

He sat in a state of stupor, with his eyes fixed on the corpse of the merchant; and when seized and interrogated respecting the matter, he laughed wildly, and could utter nothing but "Sathan, Sathan!"

The story coming to the king's ears, he sent brother Simon of St. Sepulchre's, a very holy man, to visit the Jew in Newgate, whose pious prayers had the effect of restoring him to sense; when he made known unto the friar the history of his connexion with the stranger,-how he had yielded to temptation, and that, having by his means entered Albert's house, he stabbed him. No sooner had he done so, than his companion discovered himself to be the devil; mocked him, upbraided him with his hard-heartedness; reminded him of his insensibility to the fate of Reuben and his daughter; told him that his iniquities had delivered him into his power; imprinted the mark of his finger on his forehead, where a dark black spot was still visible, and disappeared he knew not how: that he had found himself unable to leave the house, or even to quit the body, by which he sat until found there in the morning.

The Jew, upon this, being brought before the king, "with whom," says the Chronicle, were many bishops and noble men of the realm, did there relate the same tale unto all present, who heard it with much amaze and wonderment, acknowledging the wisdom and judgment of God made evident therein. And, after a few days, the said Bonomye breathed forth his wicked soul amid inexpressible torments."

The omission of the Chronicler in not informing us of the manner of the Jew's death is luckily supplied by an entry on the Fine Roll of the 48th year of Henry the Third, membrane 7, the translation of which is as follows:

"William de Walworth has made a fine with the Lord the King, by fifty marks, to have the house and tenement in Milk-street, London, which was formerly the property of Bonomye, the son of Cresse the Jew, but now in the king's hands, as his escheat, by reason of the felony of the said Bonomye, who, at the instigation of the devil, did lately slay Albert the Lombard, in Southwark, for which the said Bonomye was burned in the Cheap. And the King's Escheator in London is commanded to give the same William possession of the said house and tenement."

A TRUE HISTORY OF THE CELEBRATED WEDGEWOOD HIEROGLYPH, COMMONLY CALLED THE WILLOW PATTERN.

BY MARK LEMON.

WITH A PLATE.

IN the reign of the Emperor Fo (who was nearly as long as his name), the great philosopher Fum, by the introduction of the doctrine of metempsychosis, had set nearly all the pigtails in the Celestial Empire "bolt upright,"-Nature having devised this form of expression for a surprised Chinese. Never was astonishment so general. Wherever you turned,

"Some graceful pigtail pointed to the skies."

It was only to be equalled by the delight occasioned by the new doctrine. Death was now no longer a thing of terrors; but every child of the sun looked forward with joyous anticipation to the time when he should

"Soar the air, or swim the deep,

Or o'er the sephalica creep."

The fear was not that they must die, but that they might not. So anxious, indeed, were many for this transmigration, that, anticipating death, they insisted upon being something else.

Sing-sing, principal tenor to the emperor, fell from the shingled roof of his dwelling, and, becoming impaled on the point of his tail, conceived himself a humming-bird, and would not be quieted. Ti-di, the greatest dandy inside of the greatest wall in the universe, strutted down the principal street of Fou-loo with a water-melon on his apex, which some mischievous urchin had attached to it during his siesta. Ti-di was always so occupied with thoughts of himself, that at any time the sayings and doings of the rest of the world never gave him the least concern. It is therefore not much to be wondered at, that when his brain was being bandied about between self-love and the new doctrine, the jokes and gibes of the laughing people of Fou-loo should have been for a long time unregarded. When he did perceive their merriment, and the cause thereof, he neither