was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes towards the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for, though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse. The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly, and his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled, her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip, and her eyes were bright and piercing. "Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up as the undertaker approached the recess. "Keep back! d-n you-keep back, if you've a life to lose !" "Nonsense, my good man," said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes-"nonsense!" "I tell you," said the man, clenching his hands and stamping furiously on the floor-"I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry-not eat hershe is so worn away.' دو The undertaker offered no reply to this raving, but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. "Ah!" said the man, bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman; "kneel down, kneel down; kneel round her every one of you, and mark my words. I say she starved to death. I never knew how bad she was till the fever came upon her, and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark-in the dark! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets, and they sent me to prison. When I came back she was dying; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it-they starved her!" He twined his hands in his hair, and with a loud scream rolled grovelling upon the floor, his eyes fixed, and the foam gushing from his lips. The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had hitherto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them into silence; and having unloosened the man's cravat, who still remained extended on the ground, tottered towards the undertaker. "She was my daughter," said the old woman, nodding her head in the direction of the corpse, and speaking with an idiotic leer more ghastly than even the presence of death itself. "Lord, Lord! well it is strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying there so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord !—to think of it; it's as good as a play, as good as a play!" As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, the undertaker turned to go away. "Stop, stop!" said the old woman in a loud whisper. "Will she be buried tomorrow, or next day, or to-night? I laid her out, and I must walk, you know. Send me a large cloak; a good warm one, for it is bitter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go! Never mind: send some bread; only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear?" she said eagerly, catching at the undertaker's coat as he once more moved towards the door. "Yes, yes," said the undertaker; "of course: anything, everything." He disengaged himself from the old woman's grasp, and, dragging Oliver after him, hurried away. The next day-the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself—Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode, where Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the workhouse who were to act as bearers. old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; the bare coffin having been screwed down, was then hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried down stairs into the street. An Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden, and the two mourners kept as near them as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his master's, ran by the side. There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard, in which the nettles grew, and the parish graves were made, the clergyman had not arrived, and the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might be an hour or so before he came. So they set the bier down on the brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys, whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard, played a noisy game at hide-andseek among the tomb-stones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the papers. stamped it loosely down with his feet, shouldered his spade, and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon. "Come, my good fellow," said Bumble, tapping the man on the back, "they want to shut up the yard." The man, who had never once moved since he had taken his station by the graveside, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces, and then fell down in a fit. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak-which the undertaker had taken off-to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him, and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways. "Well, Oliver," said Sowerberry, as they walked home, "how do you like it?" "Pretty well, thank you, sir," replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. "Not very much, sir.” "Ah! you'll get used to it in time, Oliver," said Sowerberry. "Nothing when you are used to it, my boy." Oliver wondered in his own mind whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it; but he thought it better not to ask the question, and walked back to the shop, thinking over all he had seen and heard.-Oliver Twist. AND HER BABY. At length, after the lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk were seen running towards the grave; and imme- THE LITTLE AMERICAN WOMAN diately afterwards the clergyman appeared, putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial-service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and ran away again. "Now, Bill," said Sowerberry to the grave digger, "fill up.' It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth, The THERE was a little woman on board with a little baby; and both little woman and little child were cheerful, good-looking, bright-eyed, and fair to see. little woman had been passing a long time with her sick mother in New York, and had left her home in St. Louis in that condition in which ladies who truly love their lords desire to be. baby was born in her mother's house, and she had not seen her husband (to whom she was now returning) for The twelve months, having left him a month was shown by the single ones, and such or two after their marriage. Well to be peals of laughter as the little woman hersure, there never was a little woman so self (who would just as soon have cried) full of hope, and tenderness, and love, greeted every jest with! At last there and anxiety, as this little woman was; were the lights of St. Louis, and here and all day long she wondered whether was the wharf, and those were the steps; "he" would be at the wharf; and whe- and the little woman, covering her face ther "he" had got her letter; and whether, with her hands, and laughing (or seeming if she sent the baby ashore by some- to laugh) more than ever, ran into her body else, "he" would know it, meet- own cabin and shut herself up. I have ing in the street; which, seeing that he no doubt that in the charming inconhad never set eyes upon it in his life, was sistency of such excitement, she stopped not very likely in the abstract, but was her ears, lest she should hear "him" probable enough to the young mother. asking for her-but I did not see her do She was such an artless little creature, it. Then a great crowd of people rushed and was in such a sunny, beaming, on board, though the boat was not yet hopeful state, and let out all this matter made fast, but was wandering about clinging close about her heart so freely, among the other boats to find a landing that all the other lady passengers entered place; and everybody looked for the into the spirit of it as much as she; and husband, and nobody saw him, when, in the captain (who heard all about it from the midst of us all-Heaven knows how his wife) was wondrous sly, I promise she ever got there !-there was the little you, inquiring every time we met at woman clinging with both arms tight table, as in forgetfulness, whether she round the neck of a fine, good-looking, expected anybody to meet her at St. sturdy young fellow; and in a moment Louis, and whether she would want to afterwards, there she was again, actually go ashore the night we reached it (but he clapping her hands for joy, as she supposed she wouldn't), and cutting dragged him through the small door of many other dry jokes of that nature. her small cabin to look at the baby as he There was one little weazen-dried, apple- | lay asleep.-American Notes. faced old woman, who took occasion to doubt the constancy of husbands in such PAUL DOMBEY. PAUL had never risen from his little bed. He lay there, listening to the noises in the street, quite tranquilly; not caring much how the time went, but watching everything about him with observing eyes, circumstances of bereavement; and there THE LAST HOURS OF LITTLE was another lady (with a lap-dog), old enough to moralise on the lightness of human affections, and yet not so old that she could help nursing the baby now and then, or laughing with the rest when the little woman called it by its father's name, and asked it all manner of fantastic questions concerning him in the When the sunbeams struck into his joy of her heart. It was something of a room through the rustling blinds, and blow to the little woman, that, when we quivered on the opposite wall like golden were within twenty miles of our destina- water, he knew that evening was coming tion, it became clearly necessary to put on, and that the sky was red and beauthis baby to bed. But she got over ittiful. As the reflection died away, and with the same good humour, tied a handkerchief round her head, and came out into the little gallery with the rest. Then, such an oracle as she became in reference to the localities! and such facetiousness as was displayed by the married ladies, and such sympathy as the gloom went creeping up the wall, he watched it deepen, deepen, deepen into night. Then he thought how the long streets were dotted with lamps, and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the river, which he knew was flowing through the great city; and now he thought how black it was, and how deep it would look, reflecting the hosts of stars, and more than all, how steadily it rolled away to meet the sea. As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street became so rare that he could hear them coming, count them as they passed, and lose them in the hollow distance, he would lie and watch the many-coloured ring about the candle, and wait patiently for day. His only trouble was, the swift and rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop it-to stem it with his childish hands, or choke its way with sand--and when he saw it coming on, resistless, he cried out! But a word from Florence, who was always at his side, restored him to himself; and leaning his poor head upon her breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled. When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun; and when its cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured to himself-pictured! he sawthe high church-towers rising up into the morning sky, the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more, the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and the country bright with dew. Familiar sounds and cries came by degrees into the street below; the servants in the house were roused and busy; faces looked in at the door, and voices asked his attendants softly how he was. Paul always answered for himself, "I am better. I am a great deal better, thank you! Tell papa so!" By little and little he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise of carriages and carts, and people passing and repassing; and would fall asleep, or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again-the child could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his waking moments-of that rushing river. "Why, will it never stop, Floy?" he would sometimes ask her. "It is bearing me away, I think!" But Floy could always soothe and reassure him; and it was his daily delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take some rest. "You are always watching me, Floy. Let me watch you, now!" They would prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would recline the while she lay beside him: bending forward oftentimes to kiss her, and whispering to those who were near that she was tired, and how she had sat up so many nights beside him. Thus, the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would gradually decline; and again the golden water would be dancing on the wall. He was visited by as many as three grave doctors-they used to assemble down-stairs, and come up together-and the room was so quiet, and Paul was so observant of them (though he never asked of anybody what they said), that he even knew the difference in the sound of their watches. But his interest centered in Sir Parker Peps, who always took his seat on the side of the bed. For Paul had heard them say long ago, that that gentleman had been with his mamma when she clasped Florence in her arms, and died. And he could not forget it now. He liked him for it. He was not afraid. Paul closed his eyes with those words, and fell asleep. When he awoke, the sun was high, and the broad day was clear and warm. He lay a little, looking at the windows, which were open, and the curtains rustling in the air, and waving to and fro: then he said, "Floy, is it to-morrow? Is she come?" Some one seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it was Susan. Paul thought he heard her telling him, when he had closed his eyes again, that she would soon be back; but he did not open them to see. She kept her word— perhaps she had never been away-but the next thing that happened was a noise of footsteps on the stairs, and then Paul woke-woke mind and body—and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about him. There was no grey mist before them, as there had been sometimes in the night. He knew them every one, and called them by their names. "And who is this? Is this my old nurse?" said the child, regarding with a radiant smile, a figure coming in. Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at the sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody there but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity. "Floy! this is a kind good face!" said Paul. "I am glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse! Stay here!" His senses were all quickened, and he heard a name he knew. "Who was that? who said Walter?" he asked, looking round. "Some one said Walter. Is he here? I should like to see him very much." Nobody replied directly, but his father soon said to Susan, "Call him back, then let him come up!" After a short pause of expectation, during which he looked with smiling interest and wonder on his nurse, and saw that she had not forgotten Floy, Walter was brought into the room. His open face and manner, and his cheerful eyes, had always made him a favourite with Paul; and when Paul saw him, he stretched out his hand, and said, "Good-bye!" 66 Good-bye, my child!" cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurrying to his bed's head. "Not good-bye? For an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful face with which he had so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire. "Ah, yes," he said, placidly, "good-bye! Walter dear, good-bye! turning his head to where he stood, and putting out his hand again. "Where is papa? He felt his father's breath upon his cheek, before the words had parted from his lips. "Remember Walter, dear papa," he whispered, looking in his face." remember Walter. I was fond of Walter!" The feeble hand waved in the air, as if it cried "good-bye!" to Walter once again. "Now lay me down again," he said; "and Floy, come close to me, and let me see you!" Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together. "How fast the river runs between its green banks and the rushes, Floy! But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves. They always said so!" Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How green the banks were now, how bright the flowers growing on them, and how tall the rushes! Now the boat was out at sea, but gliding smoothly And now there was a shore before on. him. Who stood on the bank! He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it, but they saw him fold them so behind her neck. "Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face! But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about the head is shining on me as I go !" The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion-Death! Oh thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of immortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean!Dombey and Son. |