grass with
his hands.

The officers looked coldly on. "He was a clever fellow!" said one.

"And has given us much trouble," said the other; "let us see to Will."

"But he's not dead yet," said the banker, shuddering.

"Sir, he cannot live a minute."

Darvil raised himself bolt upright--shook his clenched fist at his
conquerors, and a fearful gurgling howl, which the nature of his wounds
did not allow him to syllable into a curse, came from his breast--with
that he fell flat on his back--a corpse.

"I am afraid, sir," said the elder officer, turning away, "you had a
narrow escape--but how came you here?"

"Rather, how came _you_ here?"

"Honest Hodge there, with the lanthorn, had marked the fellow skulk
behind the haystack, when he himself was going out to snare rabbits. He
had seen our advertisement of Watts' person, and knew that we were then
at a public house some miles off. He came to us--conducted us to the
spot--we heard voices--showed up the glim--and saw our man. Hodge, you
are a good subject, and love justice."

"Yees, but I shall have the rewourd," said Hodge, showing his teeth.

"Talk o' that by and by," said the officer. "Will, how are you, man?"

"Bad," groaned the poor runner, and a rush of blood from the lips
followed the groan.

It was many days before the ex-member for C------ sufficiently recovered
the tone of his mind to think further of Alice; when he did, it was with
great satisfaction that he reflected that Darvil was no more, and that
the deceased ruffian was only known to the neighbourhood by the name of
Peter Watts.

BOOK V.

PARODY.

My hero, turned author, lies mute in this section,
You may pass by the place if you're bored by reflection:
But if honest enough to be fond of the Muse,
Stay, and read where you're able, and sleep where you choose.
THEOC. _Epig. in Hippon_.

CHAPTER I.

"My genius spreads her wing,
And flies where Britain courts the western spring.

* * * * *

Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
I see the lords of human kind pass by,
Intent on high designs."-GOLDSMITH.

I HAVE no respect for the Englishman who re-enters London after long
residence abroad without a pulse that beats quick and a heart that
heaves high. The public buildings are few, and, for the most part, mean;
the monuments of antiquity not comparable to those which the pettiest
town in Italy can boast of; the palaces are sad rubbish; the houses of