The stranger first

The silence burst,

And replied to the Baron's look ;-
"I would not intrude,

But don't think me rude
If I sniff at that musty old book.
Charms were all very well
Ere Reform came to Hell;

But now not an imp cares a fig for a spell.
Still I see what you want,

And am willing to grant

The person and purse of the fair Isabel.
Upon certain conditions the maiden is won ;—

You may have her at once, if you choose to say 'Done!'

"The lady so rare,

Her manors so fair,

Lord Baron, I give to thee;
But when once the sun

Five years has run,

Lord Baron, thy soul's my fee!"

Oh! where wert thou, ethereal Sprite?
Protecting Angel, where?
Sure never before had noble or knight
Such need of thy guardian care!
No aid is nigh-'twas so decreed ;-
The recreant Baron at once agreed,
And prepared with his blood to sign the deed.

With the point of his sword
His arm he scored,

And mended his pen with his Misericorde ;
From his black silk breeches

The stranger reaches

A lawyer's leathern case,

Selects a paper,

And snuffing the taper,

The Baron these words mote trace:"Five years after date, I promise to pay

My soul to Old Nick, without let or delay,

For value received."-" There, my Lord, ou my life,
Put your name to the bill, and the lady's your wife."

All look'd bright in earth and heaven,
And far through the morning skies
Had Sol his fiery coursers driven,—
That is, it was striking half-past eleven
As Isabel opened her eyes.

All wondered what made the lady so late,
For she came not down till noon,

Though she usually rose at a quarter to eight,

And went to bed equally soon.

But her rest had been broken by troublesome dreams :She had thought that, in spite of her cries and her screams,

Old Nick had borne off, in a chariot of flame,

The gallant young Howard of Effinghame.
Her eye was so dim, and her cheek so chill,
The family doctor declared she was ill,

And muttered dark hints of a draught and a pill.

All during breakfast to brood doth she seem
O'er some secret woes or wrongs;

For she empties the salt-cellar into the cream,
And stirs up her tea with the tongs.

But scarce hath she finished her third round of toast,
When a knocking is heard by all-

"What may that be?-'tis too late for the post,-
Too soon for a morning call."
After a moment of silence and dread,
The court-yard rang

With the joyful clang

Of an armed warrior's tread.

Now away and away with fears and alarms,-
The lady lies clasped in young Effinghame's arms.

She hangs on his neck, and she tells him true,

How that troublesome creature, Lord Ranulph Fitz-Hugh,
Hath vowed and hath sworn with a terrible curse,
That, unless she will take him for better for worse,
He will work her mickle rue!

"Now, lady love, dismiss thy fear,

Should that grim old Baron presume to come here,
We'll soon send him home with a flea in his ear;-
And, to cut short the strife,

My love!

my life!

Let me send for a parson, and make you my wife!"
No banns did they need, no licence require,-
They were married that day before dark:
The Clergyman came,-a fat little friar,
The doctor acted as Clerk.

But the nuptial rites were hardly o'er,
Scarce had they reached the vestry door,
When a knight rush'd headlong in;
From his shoes to his shirt

He was all over dirt,

From his toes to the tip of his chin;

But high on his travel-stained helmet tower'd

The lion-crest of the noble Howard.

By horrible doubts and fears possest,

The bride turned and gaz'd on the bridegroom's breastNo Argent Bend was there;

No Lion bright

Of her own true knight,

But his rival's Sable Bear!

The Lady Isabel instantly knew

'Twas a regular hoax of the false Fitz-Hugh;

And loudly the Baron exulting cried,

“Thou art wooed, thou art won, my bonny gay bride!

Nor heaven nor hell can our loves divide!"

This pithy remark was scarcely made,

When the Baron beheld, upon turning his head,

His Friend in black close by;

He advanced with a smile all placid and bland,
Popp'd a small piece of parchinent into his hand,
And knowingly winked his eye.

As the Baron perused,
His cheek was suffused

With a flush between brick-dust and brown;
While the fair Isabel
Fainted, and fell

In a still and death-like swoon.

Lord Howard roar'd out, till the chapel and vaults
Rang with cries for burnt feathers and volatile salts.

"Look at the date!" quoth the queer-looking man,
In his own peculiar tone;

My word hath been kept,-deny it who can,-
And now I am come for mine own.'
""
Might he trust his eyes?-Alas! and alack!
"Twas a bill ante-dated full five years back!
"Twas all too true-

It was over due

The term had expired!-he wouldn't " renew,"
And the Devil looked black as the Baron looked blue.

The Lord Fitz-Hugh

Made a great to-do,

And especially blew up Old Nick,— "Twas a stain," he swore,

"On the name he bore

To play such a rascally trick!"—

"A trick?" quoth Nick, in a tone rather quick,
"It's one often played upon people who 'tick.""
Blue flames now broke

From his mouth as he spoke,

They went out, and left an uncommon thick smoke,
Which enveloping quite
Himself and the Knight,

The pair in a moment were clean out of sight.
When it wafted away,

Where the dickens were they?

Oh! no one might guess-Oh! no one might say,—
But never, I wis,

From that time to this,

In hall or in bower, on mountain or plain,

Has the Baron been seen or been heard of again.

As for fair Isabel, after two or three sighs,
She finally open'd her beautiful eyes.

She coughed, and she sneezed,

And was very well pleased,

After being so rumpled, and towzled, and teased,
To find, when restored from her panic and pain,
My Lord Howard had married her over again.

MORAL.

Be warned by our story, ye Nobles and Knights,
Who're so much in the habit of" flying of kites ;"
And beware how ye meddle again with such Flights:
At least, if your energies Creditors cramp,

Remember a Usurer's always a Scamp,

And look well at the Bill, and the Date, and the Stamp : Don't sign in a hurry, whatever you do,

Or you'll go to the Devil, like Baron Fitz-Hugh.

"DALTON."

FAMILY STORIES.-No. VIII.

DR. INGOLDSBY'S STORY.

The Lady Rohesia lay on her death-bed!

So said the doctor,-and doctors are generally allowed to be judges in these matters; besides, Doctor 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 Doctor Butts.

"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,-?" The afflicted husband could not finish the sentence.

Doctor Butts withdrew his hand from the wrist of the dying lady; he pointed to the horologe; scarce 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 !" returned Doctor Butts :-he was not a man to be browbeat out of his Latin,-and by a paltry friar Minim, too. Had it been a Bishop, indeed,—or even a mitred Abbot ;-but a miserable Franciscan!

"Benedicite!" said the friar.

"Ars longa!" retorted the leech.

Doctor Butts adjusted the tassels of his falling band, drew his short sad-coloured cloak closer around him, and, grasping his crosshandled 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 belfry tower; 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, whoever it was, he deserved well of his country and of Christendom. Ah! our ancestors were not such fools, after all, as we, their degenerate children, conceit them to have been. The Passing-Bell! a most solemn warning to imps of every description, is not to be regarded with impunity: the most impudent Succubus of them all dare as well dip his claws in holy water as come within the verge of its sound. Old Nick himself, if he sets any value at all upon his tail, had best convey himself clean out of hearing, and leave the way open to Paradise.-Little Hubert continued pulling with all his might, and St. Peter began to look out for a customer.

The knell seemed to have some effect even upon the Lady Rohesia: she raised her head slightly; inarticulate sounds issued from her lips,-inarticulate, that is, to the profane ears of the laity. Those of Father Francis indeed were sharper; nothing, as he averred, could be more distinct than the words "A thousand marks to the priory of St. Mary Rouncival." Now the Lady Rohesia Ingoldsby had brought her husband broad lands and large possessions: much of her ample dowry, too, was at her own disposal, and nuncupative wills had not yet been abolished by Act of Parliament. "Pious soul!" ejaculated Father Francis.

she said "

"A thousand marks,

"If she did, I'll be shot!" said Sir Guy de Montgomeri.

"A thousand marks!" continued the confessor, fixing his cold grey eye upon the knight, as he went on, heedless of the interruption; "a thousand marks! and as many Aves and Paters shall be duly said as soon as the money is paid."

Sir Guy shrank from the monk's gaze; he turned to the window, and muttered to himself something that sounded like “Don't you wish you may get it?"

*

The bell continued to toll. Father Francis had quitted the room, taking with him the remains of the holy oil he had been using for Extreme Unction. Everard Ingoldsby waited on him down stairs. "A thousand thanks!" said the latter.

"A thousand marks!" said the friar.

"A thousand devils!" growled Sir Guy de Montgomeri from the top of the landing-place.

But his accents fell unheeded: his brother-in-law and the friar were gone; he was left alone with his departing lady and Beatrice Grey.

Sir Guy de Montgomeri stood pensively at the foot of the bed: his arms were crossed upon his bosom, his chin was sunk upon his breast; his eyes were filled with tears; the dim rays of the fading watch-light gave a darker shade to the furrows on his brow, and a brighter tint to the little bald patch on the top of his head,-for Sir Guy was a middle-aged gentleman, tall and portly withal, with a slight bend in his shoulders, but that not much: his complexion was somewhat florid, especially about the nose; but his lady was in extremis, and at this particular moment he was paler than usual. "Bim bome!" went the bell.-The knight groaned audibly; Beatrice Grey wiped her eye with her little square apron of lace de Malines: there was a moment's pause, a moment of intense affliction; she let it fall,-all but one corner, which remained between her finger and thumb. She looked at Sir Guy; drew the thumb and forefinger of