How far this feeling was or was not founded on love, platonic friendship, or what is called cupboard affection, is again a matter foreign to the purpose. However, for the first time perhaps in his life, he now felt an inclination to perpetuate an infidelity.

There lodged in the same hotel a sickly lady, with her husband, who were attended by a buxom lass from Normandy, whose silver-tissue grenadier cap greatly enhanced natural beauties that had smitten our Yorkshireman. Marian was truly a handsome wench. By no means of a romantic disposition, she had a joke and a slap for every merry inmate of the house; and as possibly she fancied there might be some variety with foreigners, she by no means discountenanced the pantomimic advances of Sam; who, as far as gestures, and a few broken words of French went, endeavoured, though somewhat rudely, to express his growing affection. This amour afforded no small share of amusement to Marian and the French servants, although it might have been less entertaining to Sukey Simper, had she not, perhaps in a moment of pettish jealousy, encouraged the addresses of a green-coated and greenfeathered German chasseur.

Wise folks carry on love in a discreet manner, but wise folks contrive to make each other well understood. This was not an easy matter with Sam and Marian; and it was in consequence of a sad misunderstanding that the whole hotel was once more thrown into a horrible uproar, more terrific, if possible, than the last fracas of the beard.

M. de la Blague was assisting the fond views of M. des Oripaux; and the comte rendering him a reciprocal service with the ladies by detailing wondrous feats of courage that would have done honour to Amadis, Roland, and Tristam, in the days of chivalric glories, each pretending to be "quite bashful" at hearing his immortal exploits detailed; and their warlike stories were of course followed by troubadour romances, in which the minstrels fondly dwelt on the tender rhymes of vive, amie, amours, toujours, absence, existence, supplice, and delice, when the parties were interrupted by the most polyglot row that could ever have broken out amongst the hod-bearers of Babel's tower; the vocal sounds being accompanied by the loud time-keeping of desperate blows, inflicted by some strange-sounding weapon of offence or defence. The party started up with terror, when Sam Surley rushed in, roaring murder, and pursued by a spectre en chemise, with a red night-cap on his head, wielding a warming-pan, with which he unmercifully battered Sam's head, while he fervently roared out, "Pomme cuite-pomme cuite!" Angelicè-roast apples-roast apples!

A host of servants and travellers were following the combatants; it cannot be supposed that a Yorkshireman would tamely submit to such a treatment; and to each blow of the brass weapon, Sam returned a wallop of a pewter vessel, which he whirled and twirled about with singular agility and effect; since, if blood was streaming from his skull, his antagonist's nose and mouth were pouring forth a congenial and sympathetic purple stream, interrupting the words "Pomme cuitepomme cuite!" With much difficulty the belligerents were separated. The Frenchman being naturally taken for a maniac, as no one present could associate the idea of baking apples with breaking a man's head with a warming-pan.

Yet we should never be precipitate in forming conclusions; there may be reasons in roasting apples as well as in roasting eggs; and further explanations entered into by the parties, afforded proofs of the sanity of him of the warming-pan. The fact was as follows.

The scene of Sam's amorous declaration to the maid Marian was the kitchen, when surrounded by the usual group that congregates around the savoury hearth, revolving in their minds future gastronomic enjoyments as the heavy-laden spit turned round, and licking their lips as the cook or the scullion basted the said browning joint, dipping his ladle in the lèche-frite, or dripping-pan, Sam's conversation and Marian's merriment became the source of much hilarity, occasioned by his constant misapplication of the masculine and feminine articles, and various other mistakes. Sam on those occasions would look volumes of wrath, an encyclopedia of indignation, and most probably would have used more striking arguments, but for the good humour of his rustic belle. At last an opportune moment offered: he met Marian alone on the stairs. He gave her a silver thimble ;-she accepted it. He gave her a kiss; she could not decently return it, although the gift might have been unwelcome. At last he asked for a rendezvous, where uninterrupted he might declare his passion. He told her he loved her fort beaucoup, and went so far as to propose a supper in her room when all were asleep, which he expressed by laying his head on the palm of his hand, and snoring as loudly as an apoplectic. Then with a deep sigh he said, "Vous,-montrez-moi, chambre;" then again he snored, and then he endeavoured to ask her what she would like for supper, when Marian told him that pommes cuites were her delight. This intelligence rejoiced Sam. In the first place he also liked them, and in the second place he could not have hit upon a treat more economical. This matter settled, he once more begged to know her chamber, which Marian, in fits of laughter, pointed out.

Sam, as night approached, was preparing for this momentous inter. view. He drank more wine than usual, aided its effects with a few glasses of brandy, purchased the finest apples he could procure, rubbed them, and polished them with his coat-sleeve again and again, fondly comparing the blushing fruit to Marian's rosy cheek; and then he pricked them with a skewer, apprehensive that a steel fork might spoil their flavour; and then he put them before the fire, a little corner of which he claimed in so determined a manner, that no one seemed disposed to dispute its possession. And as the apples cracked and frizzled, and spat their foamy juices, and he turned them and re-turned them, blowing off the ashes, while his heart was glowing with as keen a fire, he anxiously waited for the hour of twelve, the appointed moment when, as he anticipated, the kitchen inmates dropped off one by one, leaving him in the sole enjoyment of fireside and apples.

And now the apples were done, possibly a little too brown, and, with a heart beating with anxious expectation, he took in hand the appleroaster, and proceeded to the rendezvous.

But who could have thought that so simple a girl as Marian,-a Norman peasant,-could have been so deeply versed in the science or the art of mystification as any Parisian or London coquette! that she could have returned the impassioned expressions of a plain honest Yorkshireman, which, however deficient they might have been in grammar, were perfectly intelligible in spirit,-by the ba

sest, the vilest treachery, and, after entangling him in her wiles, seek to entrap him in a most fearful toil! It can scarcely be credited-but such was the fact that instead of her own chamber, she had directed the unlucky Sam to the room in which her sick mistress and her irascible master slept. Sam well remembered the situation and number. The accident of the beard had warned him. Marian told him the door would be on the latch.

Sam Surly ascended with stealthy steps, his shoes off, on tip-toe, holding his breath, for fear of a discovery; his piping-hot apples in hand. He arrived at the door: with a gentle motion it opened—all was silent. A night-lamp was emitting a feeble light, by which he perceived a curtained bed, the drapery half drawn aside. With a fluttering heart he approached the couch-he heard a gentle moan. "Is it possible," thought he, "that at a moment like this she can sleep!" He beheld her fast on her pillow-he would have awakened her with a kiss, but he thought the announcement of supper would be quite as effectual, and he whispered in her ear, in tones as amorous as a man accustomed to converse with horses and kitchen-maids could master,

"Pom quit, pom quit, pom quit !”

The voice must have been ascending in the scale, for the last pom quit awoke the sleeping lady, who gave a loud shriek, which was followed by the imprecation of a stentorian voice, "Au voleur! au voleur!"

The terrified lover instinctively thrust the baked apples in the face of the affrighted lady, whose husband, who had been lying by her side, now jumped out of bed, and seized the first instrument of revenge he could find, a warming-pan, while Sam, foreseeing danger, grasped a pewter vessel which he stumbled over, and commenced his retreat, closely pursued by the indignant Frenchman.

Laughable as the adventure was, nothing could appease the furious husband; he foamed and danced about the room, exclaiming that a scélerat, a vile ravisseur, had broken through the slumbers of his bobonne, after taking a potion calmante and anodine; that to offer roasted apples to a woman of her condition was to take her for a femme de mauvaise vie.

In vain his countrymen represented to him that it was a mistake, requested him to return to his bobonne, as he was not in a mise dècente, being en chemise, and that, moreover, of short dimensions, and torn to ribands in the fray. Scarcely could four persons restrain him from making what he called a hecatombe and a catacombe of Sam, who, squaring himself for a regular set-to, was exclaiming, "If you've the pluck of a man about you, you bloody-minded foreigner, come on. Come on, you d-d parley-voo, come on, and I'll sarve you out!"

But what irritated the poor fellow more than the blows he had received was the sight of Marian at the door, her arms a-kimbo, and in fits of loud laughter, in which every one joined, with the exception of the parties immediately concerned, while the sick lady up-stairs had rushed to the window, alarming the whole town with shrieks and yells after mon mari―mon petit-mon pauvre homme--au voleur! à l'assassin.

Her pauvre homme at last was persuaded to withdraw. Sam him

self, while washing the blood off his bushy head, could not help laughing at the adventure, although he was often irritated at the nick-name of Pomme Cuite, which ever after stuck to him.

All this time poor Mr. Commodus Cannon, who, as Solomon Gundy said, was not able to "asseyez-vous for a week," was turning and winding in his bed, while his busy thoughts were in a similar twisting mood. He would now and then sigh heavily, and think of Wick Hall, and compare the oppressive laws of England with those of the land of freedom which he now had visited, while daily, nay, hourly demands upon his purse, which necessitated constant drafts upon his banker, convinced him that a French hotel is as expensive to a family as any English establishment of the kind, without any of its comfortable enjoyments. In Shropshire he had been something, although lately eclipsed by a brighter and more attractive star. What was he in France? Less than nothing, in a land where nothingness alone is sought after. He would willingly have retraced his steps, but, like many other persons who do foolish things, he was ashamed to avow his folly.

Such were not the feelings of the ladies. They were enchanted with their new acquaintances, who gave them lessons in French, romance, singing, and guitar, and écarté playing. It may be easily surmised that our two chevaliers had already selected two of the young ladies, under the impression (perhaps) of their being entitled to a handsome fortune. The Comte des Oripeaux not only trusted to his good luck, but tossed up with his companion for the first attempt to secure the girl's affections. The die was in his favour, and he set to work the following morning.

He proposed to take a ride with Molly Cannon, to which she assented, while Lucy accepted a similar offer from M. de la Blague. They were to procure horses. A dealer of their acquaintance was applied to, and a consultation was held, when it was decided that Miss Molly should be accommodated with a stumbling animal, which, although he might keep his legs at a gallop, was sure to come down at a trot. The following morning the party set out. Whether it was that Molly Cannon rode tolerably well, or held her miserable jade tight in hand, the beast would not come down. But Des Oripeaux perceived that, accustomed to well-trained horses, it was necessary to try her skill on a kicking Rosinante; and therefore, under pretence of tightening a girth and settling a crupper, he did somehow or other contrive to put the animal under the absolute necessity of kicking ad libitum. The stratagem had the desired effect; the galled beast began wincing and snorting, and finally played so many pranks, that a rough-rider would have found it difficult to keep his seat. Molly roared, the horse snorted, and at last set off at the top of his speed, until horse and rider rolled in a ditch. The Count, galloped after them; and having succeeded in seizing Molly Cannon's reins, tumbled off his own horse after her, accidentally hitting his head against a stone, and covering his terrified companion with his generous blood as he rolled over her, while M. De la Blague was assisting them off the ground, exclaiming "Oh, Mademoiselle il vous a sauvè la vie." And so thought Molly Cannon, and so thought Lucy Cannon, who, perceiving that her sister had only been slightly bruised, wished in her heart that her horse had played her the same trick.

Miss Molly's horse was gone, the Lord knows where. To return on foot was out of the question. A cottage was nigh. Molly was fainting with fear. Le Comte, supporting her in his arms, called a peasant, who was told to run to town as fast as he could for a carriage, while a wink and a five-franc piece, which, strictly speaking, was part of the charitable donation to the shuttlecock alien, intimated to the bumpkin that he was to move as slowly as possible. Miss Molly recovered from her fright, beheld the blood flowing from the generous Frenchman, and, with becoming sentiments of sympathy, could not help sinking on his bosom, when he swore that he should have been proud to have shed the last drop of his vital stream to rescue her from danger.

M. De la Blague, who deemed it necessary to look for the runaway horse, endeavoured to persuade Lucy to accompany him in the search; but she, from various motives, that I shall not presume to question, remained with her sister.

NUTMEGS FOR NIGHTINGALES!

BY DICK DISTICH.

No. I.-SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

FILL, fill up a bumper! no twilight, no, no!
Let hearts, now or never, and goblets o'erflow!
Apollo commands that we drink, and the Nine,
A generous spirit in generous wine.

The rose smells as sweet call it what name you will:
The right honest heart is an honest heart still;

Can we find a truer to garnish our bowls

Than Sheridan, Sherry, or prime Paddy Knowles ?

The bard, in a bumper! behold, to the brim
They rise, the gay spirits of poesy-whim!
Around ev'ry glass they a garland entwine,

Of sprigs from the laurel, and leaves from the vine.

A bumper! the bard who, in eloquence bold,
Of two noble fathers the story has told;

What pangs heave the bosom, what tears dim the eyes,
When the dagger is sped, and the arrow it flies.

The bard, in a bumper! Is fancy his theme?
'Tis sportive and light as a fairy-land dream;
Does love tune his harp? 'tis devoted and pure;
Or friendship? 'tis that which shall always endure.

Ye tramplers on liberty, tremble at him;

His song is your knell, and the slave's morning hymn!
His frolicksome humour is buxom and bland,

And bright as the goblet I hold in my hand.

The bard! brim your glasses; a bumper! a cheer!
Long may he live in good fellowship here:
Shame to thee, Britain, if ever he roam,

To seek with the stranger a friend and a home!