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the coast. All that he possessed was lost; he dared not tell it, lest it should demand as great a sacrifice from Alice, and that she should wed him with nothing. How little did he know her pure nature ! how cleansed it was from all the dross of worldly interest !

His fate was quickly cast-one throw might redeem all. Alice knew that a solemn league bound Frankland to the crew, and that the time of service was unlimited-he had never yet fixed the date. What better opportunity of so doing than the present! It would at least mitigate the pain of parting! “ Alice, sweet Alice, dost thou love me !" She looked up, and breathed loud. “Turn, then, thy dear eyes upon me, and let not thy tears dim them, for it is the last parting we shall know here.”

“ How," she replied—“ how !" and the recollection came to her of what Nell had said, for she entwined herself closer around him. “ If all that was told must come true, the tether shall be snapped, and that can never be, while I have strength to cling to thee."

“ You misunderstand me," he rejoined; “I only mean, that before the next moon our league will be dissolved, and never more renewed ; one more voyage to France, and I leave thee no more. Look upon me once, love, and bless the enterprize !"

That was more than she could do ; if her feet did not falter, she could not so far trust her voice, but she loosened her hold, and turning from him, lowly ejaculated, “It must be so--it must be so !” as if her destiny was directing her.

Thus he left her. Every thing favoured. The crew was on the shore, and the vessel on the sea. The breeze was fair and fresh, and carried them quickly across the channel. The freight was shipped, and why should they tarry ? Though the moon was up, the weather was lowering; and if it did but last them across, they should have such “a run" as the best man had never seen. Their hearts beat high, and Frankland urged them on. They put out to sea. The weather was dark enough for the devil's worst deeds, and it lasted them through. They drove their boats in upon the shore. They had signalled the wagons from sea—they were there with their best tackle. Not a moment was lost. The cargo was landed and loaded. Frankland took his post on the fore-horse—the post of danger, and of difficulty. With the best mettle of man and horses they mounted the beach. The weather was then beginning to clear. They pursued their course over the bleak and barren heather, when in a moment three lights in succession, from known points, told them that they were observed. They quickened their pace, but the tread of horses reached their ears, and gained upon them; a shot was fired at them; another—and another—and the last took effect, though aimed at random-it was upon Frankland. He did not fall. They had struck into a winding path, at a fearful pace, and for awhile their pursuers missed them, whilst they reached a halting place that was near at hand. Frankland was taken from his horse, bleeding profusely. They had hardly time to staunch the blood, for he was wounded grievously, when the watch announced that the dragoons were again nearing them.

“ We must on," said one of his companions, as he turned to Frank

land, adding, “ wilt thou go with us? or-you know the rest—the dragoons are on us."

« Take me with you-take me with you," said the dying man; “ and here Will, and William, ye were always milder than the rest," and his voice was failing him—" ye do know where I would be taken-does thee not, Will? Get thee upon Moonshine-he was always sure-footed when there was need—and I mind now how he mounted the beach, as if time pressed;-aye, now, gie him his headhe knows where I would ha' gone, I'se warrant; and Williams, lay me up on the wagon, and ye know when ye may lay me down—that's where I shall be minded ; and see that ye whistle when ye come to the ford; but mind, ye carol not as I did when things went well-ye must not belie the sorrowfu' tale—there's enough to bear without that. Whistle twice--but she'll sure to be there the first time. So, now lay me up—10—and I shall rest. Let me but see her once more_let me bless her,"—and raising his voice to the highest pitch he then could, exclaimed, “Oh, Heaven ! if thee canst not grant me this, do thee bless her for me,”—and so he sank.

The party moved onward-pursuit was hot, but the path they took was intricate. As they descended into the valley they increased their speed, for should they once gain the river, they thought they might baffle them. They might cross, and not show the trace of their passage to their pursuers. As they approached the ford the whistle was given-once--and twice—they dashed in, and crossed with safety. On the other side, and near the cottage, stood Alice; she knew it was not his whistle-she heard not his voice. They stopped. “Where are ye, Alice ?" No answer. “He's worse than ill, I fear.” She seemed to know it. They lowered him down—she was as a statue, save that a huge tear stood in her eye, and seemed as if it could not fall. They felt his heart—it had ceased to beat—some one mercilessly said so, and she fell extended upon his body. The tear gushed forth, and—dare I tell it ?-her reason with it!

Thus it was they left her, as the letter of the warning was com pleted. How she was severed from him I know not. When it was accomplished, she was seen creeping up to the hut of old Nell; she crawled into it, and never again would be enticed from it—a witless thing, whose words in her turn would have been an oracle in the neighbourhood, if Providence had not so afflicted her that her only utterance was an hysteric laugh!

SCENE-DRYBURGH ABBEY BY MOONLIGHT. The Muse of Scotland leaning over the tomb of Scott, her head crowned with cypress, and a harp lying at her feet-solemn music is heard in the distance, after which the Muse repeats the following

INVOCATION.
Ye splendid visions of the shadowy night,
Ye spectral forms, that float in fields of light;
Spirits of beauty, that in mid air dwell,
Come to the shrine of him who loved you well!
Shades of departed heroes from the tomb,
Covered with dust of ages, hither come,
In your bright panoply and crested might,
Such as he called you forth to life and light.
And ye, too, brethren of the cloister'd vow,
And ye, pale sisterhood, that loved to bow
Your virgin beauties to the holy thrall, -
Come to this festival of death-come-all !
Ye mighty ones of earth uncrown your brows-
A mightier head lies here; and sweeter vows
Than ever king received, embalm this spot,
Where sleeps the king of song-immortal Scott.
Come, sportive lovers of the moonlight hour,
Ye fairies, that, obedient to his power,
Played off your merry pranks in hall and bower :
But, chief of all, come nature-holy wells,
Yielding your silver tribute-freshest bells,
Plucked from the blooming heather-echoes fair,
Chanting his golden lays, till earth and air
Are full of melody. Come all ! come all !
Ye nations too, come at the solemn call !
And first his own dear land! bring offerings meet,
Such as his spirit loved-bright flowers and sweet;
For he has sung your beauties, he has thrown
A magic round them greater than their own,
And o'er thy charms his soul enamoured hung,
“ Till not a mountain reared its head unsung ;"
Come, then, awake the harp, and let earth ring,

With one deep dirge of woe from voice and string !
At the end of the Invocation a solemn symphony is played, after which a

chorus of voices sing the following

DIRGE.
He's gone from the halls that resounded with mirth,
The light is gone out from the once blazing hearth,
And the bard of the bright lay lies coldly in earth.
Oh! never again shall we look on his face:
The glory of Scotland, the pride of his race,
Is gone, and there's none that can fill up his place.
Bring garlands as bright as his fancy could twine,
Bring odours, bring gems of the far-distant mine,
Bring all that is costly to lay at his shrine.
And, oh! bring his own harp, all bosoms to move;
Let earth do him homage, and friendship and love
Sing peace to his spirit the bright stars above.

THE LIFE, OPINIONS, AND PENSILE ADVENTURES OF

JOHN KETCH.1

WITH RECOLLECTIONS OF HIS CONTEMPORARIES DURING

THE LAST THREE REIGNS.

EDITED BY THE AUTHOR OF “OLD BAILEY EXPERIENCE.”

O grief beyond all other griefs, when fate

First leaves the young heart lone and desolate
In the wide world, without that only tie

For which it loy'd to live, or feared to die."
“ Necessity is a hard taskmaster.”

Few men at that time could cover the ground like me ; one, however, I heard close at my heels, and that after I had made several of my best pushes. A thought now struck me; I suddenly laid myself down across the road, then raising up my back as he came down it, I occasioned him almost to throw a somerset; then getting up, I left him stretched upon the road at his full length, severely hurt, as I am sorry to say, if the account in the newspapers which reported the affair are to be believed.

By-the-way, I may remark, that of all the public transactions in which I have been engaged, both as regards opposing or executing the laws, I never read one faithfully reported in a newspaper, although the accounts of many malefactors are obtained from the office at Newgate; but the public are not aware how numerous are the motives and the causes which lead to false statements, coming even from that place. Proceeding a mile on towards town, I recollected that the coach was to go another way, and that I might be pursued, on which thought I crossed at the first turning, and hastened to make the road down which I knew my associates must pass, because they had to go a considerable way round. I met them as I expected, but when I got into the coach the thoughts of the body made me sick, and I wished myself opposed to some living being, however formidable, rather than to the silent one lying at my feet. We now put up the blinds of the coach, and turning the lantern, took the body out of the sack, and packed it up in the hamper, which I was surprised to see so fitted to the purpose ; then driving straight to the surgeon's house, the coach-yard gate being left open for the purpose, we deposited our prize at once, instead of leaving it until the morning as intended when the subject was put into the hamper. We were rewarded with twenty-five pounds for this exploit, although the current price of subjects was at that time from six to nine pounds.

If the effect upon me be general, and the same with other persons, as regards our intimacy with death, I think nothing so alarming and awful as the first introduction to a dead body, and yet nothing which gives us pain at first sight is so soon overcome. In a few days I thought no more of being in company with a corpse than I do now in sitting by the fire-side with my old faithful Sall, and smoking my pipe.

I remained upwards of three years a resurrectionist, during which time I had many curious adventures, similar to those which are frequently laid before the public as anecdotes connected with body snatching-false alarms from donkeys, bearded goats, hogs, and also grey mares, which

Continued from vol. xiii. p. 448.

have strolled into the churchyard at the dead of the night for a bit of long grass, in direct opposition to the positive orders of the vicar, who claims the produce of the rich compost formed by the dead as his own property. With these stories I will not detain the reader, but hasten on to that period of my history which is connected with questions of public interest.

The surgeon whom I especially served was a remarkable man for selecting his own subjects, and few of his friends on whom he had placed his eye while living, escaped his knife when dead. I was sent for one day, and told that a relation of his, recently dead, who was buried in Highgate churchyard, must be had. Unwilling to disoblige or lose a good customer, we went down two successive nights, but failed, which put our employer in a towering passion. To appease him I was determined to make another attempt, and try what a bribe would do with the watchman: I however had no sooner made an offer in a public-house to which I had invited him before the watch was set, than he seized me, and calling for assistance, took me before a magistrate. I was the next day brought up to Bow-street office upon some other raked up charge, and twice examined, but ultimately discharged. As I left the office, and was proceeding across Covent Garden Market, a person accosted me and said, “You and I have met before ; I heard your examination, and am glad it has turned out so well, but I wonder one of your talent should go body snatching." He then informed me that we had once been in prison together, and that, although I had forgotten him, he knew all about me; then viewing me from head to foot continued, “I am glad to see you looking so well ; you do right to dress as you do. It must be comfortable to yourself, and it is decidedly the best blind known or practised." He then invited me to dine with him, to which I readily assented, for it was one of my failings to be over fond of the company and professed friendship of strangers. After dinner he became more communicative, and said that he thought he could serve me; that he had been desired to look out for such a person, and that it was with the view of meeting one which would suit, that he attended at Bow Street, adding, “I cannot at present say more, but let us be acquainted, and a few days will enable me to be more explicit.”

My new acquaintance turned out to be a person connected with a first. rate gang of housebreakers. The reader must understand that there are two distinct classes of burglars in London ; one consisting of the most desperate men in all the classes of thieves, men who have been often at the bar of justice, and are so well known to the officers, that they have no resource left but to rob under the cover of night. These depredators usually associate in small parties, comprising three, four, or five indi. viduals in each partnership, many of whom, in my time, have impeached one another to save their own lives. When a robbery is committed, and accompanied with murder or violence of the person, one of these gangs is sure to be concerned in it; for when they become hard up for money they throw prudence overboard, and go rashly and desperately to work in order to obtain it, and I can generally find out which of the different sets of cracksmen about town has perpetrated the deed, by making inquiries who about the same time were known to have been at low-water mark, and who after the affair is over have sported new clothes, and been seen with money in their possession. This was Jonathan Wild's plan, and very successful he was in his day, upon all occasions either causing the apprehension of the guilty parties, or making his own terms to save them, as his interest might dictate or point out.

The other class, (swell cracksmen,) are altogether another kind of beings; the wary and comparatively wealthy housebreaker never allows the men with whom he connects himself to become absolutely poor and

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