t again. "Who's there?"

"Now, zur; 'ee'll be too late, zur!"

"Coming!"--Every thing was now gathered together;--the portmanteau
would not lock. No matter, it must be content to travel to town in a
_deshabille_ of straps. Where were my boots? In my hurry, I had
packed away both pair. It was impossible to travel to London, on such
a day, in slippers. Again was every thing to be undone.

"Now, zur, coach be going."

The most unpleasant part of the ceremony of hanging (scarcely excepting
the closing act) must be the hourly notice given to the culprit, of the
exact length of time he has yet to live. Could any circumstance have
added much to the miseries of my situation, most assuredly it would have
been those unfeeling reminders. "I'm coming," groaned I; "I have only
to pull on my boots." They were both left-footed! Then must I open the
rascally portmanteau again.

"What in the name of the--do you want now."

"Coach be gone, please zur."

"Gone! Is there a chance of my overtaking it?"

"Bless 'ee, noa, zur; not as Jem Robbins do droive. He be vive mile off
be now."

"You are certain of that?"

"I warrant 'ee, zur."

At this assurance I felt a throb of joy, which was almost a compensation
for all my sufferings past. "Boots," said I, "you are a kind-hearted
creature, and I will give you an additional half-crown. Let the house be
kept perfectly quiet, and desire the chambermaid to call me--"

"At what o'clock, zur?"

"This day three months, at the earliest."

P--.

_New Monthly Magazine_.

[***] A welcome re-action seems to have taken place in the conduct of
the _New Monthly Magazine_. The present is an auspicious New-year's
Number. It is, moreover, embellished with a fine Bust Engraving of Sir
Walter Scott, Bart.

[1] "There are not two bricks in your accursed town," said the
tragedian, "but are cemented with the blood of an African."

* * * * *

THE PENITENT'S RETURN.

_By Mrs. Hemans_.

Can guilt or misery ever enter here?
All! no, the spirit of domestic peace,
Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove,
And ever murmuring forth a quiet song,
Guards, powerful as the sword of Cherubim,
The hallow'd Porch. She hath a heavenly smile,
That sinks into the sullen soul of vice,
And wins him o'er to virtue.

WILSON.

My father's house once more,
In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around,
Something, amidst the dewy calm p