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me her hand, as much as to say that she could not thank me sufficiently in words. I told her I was well repaid by having saved her favourite; and I was sure that, if he could speak, he would thank me for having restored him to so kind a mistress. She told me she lived with her mother, in a cottage, about half an hour's walk up the river; and that, having wet myself in her service, if I would walk along with her, her mother would be glad to receive me as a stranger, and still more as the preserver of their favourite. It was not an offer to refuse she gave me the little dog to carry, and we walked on together. She told me that she had been to see her sister, who was married, and who resided in the village whose tower I had seen; that she had taken the dog with her as a companion, and thinking it might be tired, had carried it all the way from the village. Innocent, tender-hearted creature! What are ye, ye refinements of civilization, in comparison with the confiding innocence and simplicity of the Hungarian girl, who extends her hand to the stranger who has saved her dog, and invites him to her maternal roof, to refreshment and repose! She said the dog had belonged to her brother Theodore, but that when he went to the wars he had made her a present of it, to keep for her sake, and that she and her mother loved it much, both because Theodore loved it, and because it had loved Theodore. As we walked for a few moments in silence, I had leisure to contemplate the form which enshrined so pure a soul. She was above the middle height, slender, but possessed that beautiful roundness of form, which is so captivating in woman; her eyes were blue and mild, but expressive; her mouth was not perhaps quite so small and symmetrical as a limner would die of envy to paint, but two rows of pearly teeth were seen betwixt two parted lips of roses. She held her bonnet in her hand; and abundance of beautiful tresses, gently agitated by the air, shewed a forehead of purity, and shaded a neck no less white; her age might be eighteen, but whatever it was, she seemed yet to preserve the recent impress of the hand of divinity. I asked her if she was not afraid to walk so far alone.

"No," said she; "all the country people know me:

"And love you too," I added.

"At least," said she, "no one would harm me."

Harm thee! I could have pressed her to my heart, and sworn to protect her for ever, and I would have kept my word. I asked her if she had never been tempted to follow the example of her sister.

"No," said she, "my mother is old and infirm; I shall never leave her." "Heaven will bless thy resolution," said I. But I could not help thinking, as I beheld her charms, and reflected upon her goodness, that destiny would hardly be just, if it should refuse to reward her filial piety by the holy joys of wedded love.

"We live yonder," said she, as we came in sight of a beautiful little cottage with an orchard sloping down the river. **** I was received as strangers were received of old, before the inhabitants of cities had carried their corruptions into the lands of simplicity and hospitality. Never shall I forget our evening meal. talked of the danger of their favourite.

We

"Take care of him, Constance," said the kind old woman, "it is all we have of Theodore:" as she named her son, a tear trickled down her cheek; Constance kissed it off, but her own trickled in its place. I talked to them of distant climes and foreign manners. They had heard of England, but had never before seen one of its natives; they said that henceforth they would love it next to Hungary. They keep early hours in Hungary.

After supper I strolled into the orchard with Constance, and we silently gazed upon the river. She gave me some ripe pears. "These will perhaps refresh you tomorrow," said she.

"Ah, Constance," I replied, "they may be sweet to day but to-morrow they will be bitter."

The bell tolled from the neighbouring village where I was to sleep, and I knew it was time to part. I trembled every inch of me; "Absurd," said I to myself, "I have known her but three hours; true, but I could live with her for ever." We returned to the cottage. The custom of the country permitted me to embrace at parting,—and never did I press the cheek of youth and beauty with so large an alloy of pain. Fair Constance, where art thou now? still in thy little cottage, on the banks of the Danube! I see thee strolling among the walnut trees, and I think that, when gazing on the river, thou wilt perhaps remember that a stranger once gazed upon it with thee Hungarian girl, farewell!

EVIL MAY DAY. CHAPTER I.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

On the evening of the 29th of April, in the year 1517, and consequently in the eighth year of the reign of Henry the Eighth, a tall, portly, broad-shouldered and comely visaged man, in the garb of a respectable citizen, emerged from one of the dark lanes which led into Thamesstreet, near Dowgate, and proceeded at a sturdy pace in a westerly direction. It was growing dark, the shops and stalls were closed, and the good citizens were at their suppers. The lusty stranger seemed to be conscious of this, and strode along with a firm and erect gait, more resembling that of a man-at-arms than a simple burgess. He had scarcely walked forty paces when two men, squalid and ill-looking, darted from under a gateway, and while they both confronted him, one of them with a grisly oath made a snatch at the purse which hung at his girdle.

"Ha! St. George!" cried the stout man, eluding the fellow's grasp, "take that, knave," and flourishing a stout oaken staff, he stretched the fellow on the

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ground with a well-directed blow, which had it alighted on his head instead of his shoulder, would infallibly have knocked out his brains.

Though somewhat daunted at this resistance, the other thief drew forth a long knife, while his companion scrambled on his legs again, and blood would no doubt have flowed but for the sudden arrival of a young man armed with a broad-sword and a buckler, who shouting as he whirled his weapon round his head," Have at ye, ye cut-purse villains!" instantly placed himself by the side of the citizen.

Alarmed at this unexpected succour, the thieves fled precipitately down the street, and were soon lost among the numerous dark alleys which led to the water side.

"Thanks, my young master," said the portly figure who had been so promptly assisted, "a friend at such a time is worth a thousand fair speeches."

"You are heartily welcome, sir," replied the youth, sheathing his broadsword, "and if your road lies westward, I will bear you company a part of the way. The gentlemen of the Whitefriars are always stirring with the owl

and the bat, and you may meet others of the same family before you reach home."

"A boat waits for me at Queenhithe," said the stranger, "but as the night is coming on, I will accept your offer, young man ;" and he proceeded on his way with his sturdy step, humming one of the songs of that period: at length he spoke again.

By what name shall I know my champion?"

"Nicholas Fortescue, an 't please you, fair sir," replied the youth, in a respectful tone, for he thought there was something in the air and manner of his interrogator above the stamp of an ordinary citizen.

"Of what craft or profession?" was the next inquiry.

"Prentice to master George Elliott, stationer, in St. Paul's Churchyard," replied the youth.

"Ha! St. George! a 'prentice, and abroad at this hour! does master Elliott give you such license young man?

The 'prentice hung his head, and was mute for some seconds. At length he muttered in a tone which shewed that he did not relish the remark:

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My back will doubtless taste of the stirrup leather, sir; but I shall not grieve at that since my playing truant brought me to your rescue. There was some good sword play at the bank-side this evening, and Mahoud the great black bear was baited. Ecod, sir! he nipped asunder Ralph, the butcher's dog, of the High street, and played the devil among the other curs."

"And you could not flee from the temptation?" interrupted the stranger. "But come, you are a brave youth, and though I cannot save your back from master Elliott's discipline, I can find an unguent that hath cured many wounds."

As he said this they arrived at Queenhithe stairs, off which lay a boat with a party-coloured tilt, and the stranger, unfastening the pouch which hung at his girdle, placed it in the hand of the apprentice.

"Take this," he continued, 66 you will find it stuffed with proper metal; but have a care of the purse; it is a sovereign charm against sorcery and danger of all kinds—George Willoughbye is your debtor, young man.”

The apprentice doffed his leathern cap, and bowed low as he received the pouch; but as he did so he took care to steal a glance at the features of the donor.

The keel of the boat now grated on

the stairs, and the stranger having entered and taken his seat, it darted out into the stream, and was soon lost in the gloom.

"George Willoughbye! he must he be a noble!" ejaculated Fortescue, thrusting the well filled purse into his bosom ; "I have surely seen that broad fair face and well trimmed beard before tonight; but now for my master's uncomely visage." And saying this he bent his way homeward. He had just reached Thames-street, when the trampling of feet was heard on his right.

"Ha! by the mass!" muttered the 'prentice as he quickened his pace, "here's the city watch going their rounds-I'd rather face master Elliott than sleep in the Compter tonight."

Disappearing steathily from the spot, Nicholas Fortescue was in a few minutes afterwards knocking at his master's door, on the north side of St. Paul's Churchyard, now wrapped in total darkness.

CHAP. II.

THE CITY WATCH.

OUR 'prentice had knocked three or four times, each knock being louder than the preceding one, when a window was opened above, and the gaunt visage of master Elliott, illumined by the light of the lamp which he held in his hand, looked out ominously upon him.

"Who knocks?" inquired the stationer, in a loud and angry voice.

"Tis I, master,” replied the 'prentice, in a soft, subdued, penitential tone. "Rascal!" cried the man of business,

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get thee gone! go and sleep in St. Nicholas' shambles-I will not let thee into my house to night!" and he shut to the window in a furious passion.

"Hum!" said Fortescue, as he seated himself on the stone steps; "then I'm likely to get a lodging at the expense o' the city; for if I stay here 1 shall soon be marched off to the Compter- I'll e'en try him again."

He accordingly renewed his knocking with increased vehemence: but master Elliott was inexorable; the door remained closed against him, and our 'prentice resumed his seat on the steps, whistling a tune and beating time with his heel.

The sound smote the ear of his master, who was praying for the arrival of the watch. He did not pray in vain; the watch soon arrived, and the whole party halted, as soon as they espied the 'prentice, whose solo was hushed in a

moment.

The 'prentice made no reply, indeed he knew not what reply to make.

"Kick him up, Will Lathbury," said the sergeant; and one of the men advanced to do his bidding, but this was not an easy performance. Fortescue started up, and swearing a fierce oath, placed himself in a threatening attitude, his unsheathed sword in his hand, and his buckler covering his head. Dark as was, the man perceived his danger and recoiled. "'Ods, daggers and devils!" cried the sergeant, May double-beer be my poison, if thou 'rt not afraid!"

it

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"I am not afraid," said the man in a surly tone, "and now my fine fellow put up your broadsword, or I'll cleave your pate for you in a trice."

Daring and obstinate, Nicholas Fortescue heeded not this menace, but remained on the defensive, when the sergeant of the watch again addressed him.

"Harkee, young coistrel!" cried he, "this may be very pretty play in Moor Fields on a summer's evening, but it won't do here-throw down your weapon at once, or you'll be cut to the chine in a paternoster."

The 'prentice did not stir.

"Nay then, down with him," continued the sergeant, perceiving that his remonstrance produced no effect; and Fortescue was instantly stretched on the ground with the stroke of a brown bill. His buckler saved his head, but he sunk under the furious blow, and was instantly seized by two of the watch.

Suddenly there was a stir in the house of the stationer, whose head appeared at the window, while the pretty round face of his daughter looked out with alarm over his shoulder upon the scene below. "My dearest father, forgive him," murmured the damsel, in a voice trembling with emotion.

"Go to your chamber, girl," said her father angrily, "I'll teach the rascal to be malapert.'

"Be not wrath with him, dear father," and the tears stood in her blue eyes.

"Away with thee," cried the stationer, in a tone which shewed that he would not be trifled with. Jane Elliott instantly left the room in tears, and her father leaning out of the window, desired the watch to lodge his undutiful apprentice in the Poultry Compter.

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Nay nay, master stationer," said the sergeant, "'tis a pity to take the boy away, your pretty daughter will grieve."

Master Elliott turned pale with rage,

execration, which for the ladies' sakes must not be recorded.

"Go to the devil with you, sirrah!" cried he, "and have a care of your prisoner!"

While this was passing, Nicholas Fortescue uttered not a word, much to the surprise of his master, who naturally expected to hear him supplicate for pardon; but the man of business was disappointed, and shutting-to his window, he left the watch to conduct their prisoner to the compter.

Master Elliott threw himself into his arm chair, and took a long pull at his horn of sack posset.

A murrian take the girl!" cried he, "she will plague me more than half a score of boys! I'll take a course with her, spite of her tears, which every woman can shed at will. Who but a beardless gallant would be moved by such? 1 should as soon grieve at seeing a duck walk barefoot !"

The concluding part of Master Elliott's soliloquy was strictly true; but the fair reader should be informed that our widower had counted sixty summers, and that he had been plagued for many years by his wife, who was a shrew.

CHAP. III.

THE ALSATIAN BLACKSMITH.

Shamwell.-"They are up in the Friars." The Squire of Alsatia. THE boat which conveyed Master Willoughbye, glided rapidly up the stream in almost total darkness. Here and there a feeble light glimmered in some dwelling which encroached upon and overhung the city wall, and on the other side of the river, the faint light of a taper might be seen at intervals in the houses on the bankside. Lower down, but dimly seen through the gloom, London Bridge, with its towers and dwellings, spanned the noble river, whose dark stream poured through its arches with a sullen and unbroken roar. But these were soon lost to the ear and the eye as the boat ascended the river. soon approached the neighbourhood of the Blackfriars, when the noise of smiths' hammers aroused master Willoughbye from the reverie in which he had been indulging.

It

"Ha!' cried he, "what can this mean? no citizen can be working at this late hour!"

The boat continued to advance, and the sound became more and more audible. They were now off the far famed

Whitefriars, and the cause of the noise became obvious.

In one of the wretched hovels which descended to the water's edge, was a smith's forge, the fire from which threw its red glare upon the river. Two men were hard at work, and several others were conversing in boisterous tones. Mischief was brewing in Alsatia!

"Pull towards that smithy and lie to under the shadow of yon great barge," said master Willoughbye to the rowers.

This command was promptly obeyed, and the boat was soon within half a stone's throw of the Alsatians. The smiths continued at their work for some time, and the noise they made prevented the conversation of the others who had assembled in the shed, from being distinctly heard by him who was now playing the eaves-dropper. Merrily rung the hammers, as they dashed the bright sparks among the company, whose features were lit up by the vivid glow of the fire it was a scene worthy the pencil of Schalcken.

A lengthened description of the region of Whitefriars, which, under the cant name of Alsatia, was for a long period the hiding-place of the most desperate wretches that infested the metropolis, will not here be necessary. Shadwell has left us a play, in which he has given a picture of the doings in this classic land, and Sir Walter Scott, with consummate skill, has, in "The Fortunes of Nigel' wrought a beautiful and stirring scene from the slender materials. Whitefriars was, at the period of which we are writing, and for a long while after, a sanctuary for all whom debt or crime had thrust from decent society: the lurking-hole of theives, beggars and bullies, where warrant and capias were powerless, unless supported by a file of musketeers; the head quaters of

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angry spirits, And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason, Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out Muffled to whisper curses to the night; Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians, And desperate libertines."-Marino Faliero.

Woe to the unlucky tipstaff who ventured within the precincts of Alsatia; a fortunate man was he if he could compound for his life by quietly allowing himself to be tarred and feathered.

It is long since this human den existed, but he who visits the spot at the present day, will find that, although Whitefriars is no longer a sanctuary for felons and debtors, it has not been entirely purged of its abominations.

But to return to master Willoughbye. The hammering in the Alsatian smithy at length ceased, and the fire sunk down, so that the boat could approach nearer without being observed.

"The jail-birds of the Friars are hatching treason," observed one of the boatmen in a whisper to his fellow.

"Ay," replied the other," and the cockneys are going to bed, little dreaming, good souls! that a thousand knives are sharpening for their throats! mayor is a fool, or he'd give these rascals a camisado."

The

Master Willoughbye was listening to the conversation in the smithy, which now rung with other music than that of the anvil.

"There's good stuff at the steel-yard" remarked a burly shaped and sinister featured man, with a ragged jerkin and a greasy thrum cap-"Ay, capital stuff! That old Flemish rascal Philip Van Rynk has many a bale of Brabant linen in his bestowing rooms.

"Ay, ay!" cried another, "and not a few ells of cloth of gold, and budge, and tapestry, and other fineries which have been denied to the poor man."

"And a pretty daughter too," said a tall slim young man with a gilt chain round his neck, a sword and dagger, and a neatly trimmed beard, all of which tended to shew his threadbare apparel to still greater disadvantage. He had been one of the most cutting gallants that strutted in St. Paul's for an appetite.

"Thou mayest take the wench, master Lorymer, and leave me the cloth, for I lack linen," stammered another in a voice that shewed him to be about three parts drunk.

"You shall have enough to make you a comfortable winding sheet, my boy," replied the young man, who had also been drinking. Have you got your brown-bill well ground? These fo

reigners can fight, and they'll shew their teeth, my valiant Hector !"

"Havock's the word," said a fellow with a ferocious countenance and the frame of a Hercules, "I'm for having a turn at the Frenchmen in St. Martins-legrand first, and then we can visit one Monsieur Meutas in Leadenhall street, whose throat I'll cut if we should catch him at home."

This ruffian had been a butcher, and had been thrice exposed in the pillory.

"And there's another frog-eater near the Conduit in the West Cheap: his name's Pierre Beauvarlet: he deals in Naples-fustians, Normandy canvass and